* 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  ROMANCE 


AN 

OLD    MAN'S    ROMANCE 

A    TALE 
Written  by  CHRISTOPHER  CRAIGIE 


BOSTON 

Published  by  Copeland  and  Day 
MDCCCXCV 


ENTERED  ACCORDING  TO  THE  ACT  OF 
CONGRESS  IN  THE  YEAR  1895  BY 
COPELAND  AND  DAY,  IN  THE  OFFICE 
OF  THE  LIBRARIAN  OF  CONGRESS 
AT  WASHINGTON. 


StacfC 
Anne* 


TO 

HER   WHOM 

I    HAVE    CALLED 

RUTH 


INTRODUCTORY. 

HIGHBANK  is  unknown  outside  of  New 
England,  and  to  most  New  Englanders 
it  is  but  a  name.  To  a  few  it  is  a  synonym  for 
what  is  best  in  New  England  rural  life,  —  the 
strength  without  the  hardness  of  Puritanism,  the 
earnestness  without  the  impatience  of  the  West- 
ern spirit,  the  spirituality  without  the  coldness 
of  Old  World  culture.  The  town  boasts  that 
most  of  the  inhabitants  were  born  there ;  and 
the  boast  might  have  been  made  at  any  time  in 
the  last  hundred  years.  It  boasts  that  it  has  yet 
to  see  its  first  factory,  its  first  electric  street-car, 
and  its  first  Sunday  paper.  I  do  not  need  to 
describe  its  streets ;  for  every  large  New  Eng- 
land village  which  makes  these  boasts  has  its 
old  but  neat  white  houses,  its  newer  but  not 
staring  brown  houses,  its  capacious  lawns,  its 
shaded  sidewalks,  and  its  small  but  wholly 
trustworthy  shops. 


Many  even  of  those  who  lay  no  claim  to 
residence  there,  either  past  or  present,  cherish 
the  town's  honor  almost  as  carefully  as  those 
whose  names  appear,  with  antique  spelling,  on 
the  first  tax-roll.  Some  of  us  steal  away  to 
Highbank  two  or  three  times  a  year  to  breathe 
its  atmosphere.  Nature  never  built  a  town, 
they  say ;  she  does  n't  drive  thorns  into  her 
own  flesh.  Yet  one  can  almost  fancy  that  she 
looked  on  complacently  when  Highbank  was 
built.  Run  out  there  from  the  city  some  day, 
—  it  does  n't  matter  what  the  weather  is,  — 
and  you  will  feel  a  new  vigor  in  your  breast. 
You  will  not  be  assailed  at  every  turn,  or  at 
any  turn,  by  the  evidence  of  machinery, — 
mammoth,  box-like  buildings,  smoking  chim- 
neys, wheezing  engines,  buzzing  wheels,  rat- 
tling looms,  dangling  wires.  Best  of  all,  the 
men  you  will  meet  are  not  machines.  They 
are  not  turned  out  of  bed  by  alarm-clocks  ;  fed 
with  steam-cooked  food ;  whisked  to  business 
in  crowded,  noisy  electric  or  elevated  cars ; 
wound  up  for  the  day's  work  by  the  sight  of 
big  machines  and  piles  of  raw  material,  or  by 

2 


the  morning's  mail ;  regulated  by  the  "  Express 
and  Shipping  Guide,"  or  the  post-office  sched- 
ule of  mail  departures ;  hurried  through  dinner 
by  the  amusement  column  of  the  evening 
paper;  and  finally  sent  to  bed  by  the  fear  of 
the  morning's  inexorable  alarm-clock. 

In  Highbank,  the  sun  shines  into  our  win- 
dows and  kisses  our  eyes,  the  robin's  note  kisses 
our  ears,  and  we  wake.  We  look  out  of  the 
window,  and  over  our  neighbor's  lawn  we  see 
the  valley  of  the  river;  and  beyond  we  see 
old  Saddleback,  ready  to  be  mounted  by  any 
restless  spirit.  We  step  out  upon  the  grass, 
and  let  the  dew  take  off  the  hideous,  staring 
gloss  which  the  modern  shoe-blacking  has  given 
our  shoes.  Betty  soon  serves  breakfast  in 
the  big,  low-studded  dining-room.  The  sun 
streams  in  through  the  row  of  eastern  win- 
dows, touches  the  glass  on  the  table,  and  fills  the 
room  with  rainbows.  By  and  by  we  stroll  out 
to  work.  We  need  no  stimulus.  Whether  or 
not  one  is  lazy,  the  eager  blood,  which  air  and 
light  have  quickened,  cries  for  work  to  do.  To 
be  sure,  we  do  not  fancy  dictating  the  price  of 
3 


cotton  cloth  or  patent-leather  shoes  to  our 
type-writer,  nor  do  we  fancy  taking  places  at 
rattling,  greasy  machines;  but  we  feel  like 
wielding  an  axe  for  a  half-day,  and  guiding  a 
plough  or  working  at  a  forge  for  another  half-day. 
We  want  to  work  in  sight  of  the  wide  sky  and 
open  fields ;  and  we  must  have  work  that  leaves 
our  fancy  sometimes  free.  We  scorn  to  bind 
our  thought  continuously  to  money-getting. 
The  realm  of  thought  is  our  great  birthright. 
Shall  one  make  a  draught-horse  of  one's  brains 
for  a  mess  of  pottage  ?  When  the  day  is  done, 
it  is  our  muscles,  not  our  brains,  that  are  tired. 
A  quiet  dinner,  free  from  bustling  waiters,  from 
the  rumble  of  carriages  along  the  pavement,  and 
from  the  thought  of  timed  engagements,  begins 
the  evening.  We  take  our  books,  or  chat  with 
each  other  or  a  visitor,  while  the  girls  at  the 
piano  open  vistas  of  dreamland  or  memory- 
land  to  our  inner  eyes. 

It  was  through  my  love  for  Highbank  that 

I  was  put  in  the  way  of  learning  one  of  its 

romances.     A  serious  fall    in    the  woods    on 

Saddleback  forced  me  to  spend  a  few  weeks  in 

4 


the  Highbank  hospital,  healing  a  broken  leg. 
My  nearest  neighbor  was  an  old  gentleman  of 
seventy,  or  thereabouts,  who  had  received  in- 
ternal injuries  in  a  railway  accident.  As  he 
did  not  leave  his  room,  it  was  not  until  I  was 
allowed  to  wheel  myself  about  in  an  invalid's 
chair  that  I  came  to  know  him.  Then  out  of 
our  common  love  for  the  town  grew  a  consid- 
erable intimacy. 

He  was  a  thoroughly  lovable  old  man.  He 
had  preserved  his  powers  in  an  uncommon  de- 
gree. The  only  sign  of  age  was  a  certain 
timidity ;  yet  I  doubt  whether,  in  thought,  at 
least,  the  seeming  timidity  was  more  than  a 
natural  conservatism.  At  any  rate,  he  had  even 
less  of  it  than  is  common  among  professional 
and  business  men  of  his  age. 

He  spent  much  of  his  time  in  writing.  One 
day,  on  learning  that  he  had  been  for  many 
years  engaged  in  work  of  a  literary  nature,  I 
ventured  to  ask  him  whether  he  had  an  unfin- 
ished book  on  hand. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am  writing  for  wholly 
personal  reasons.     I  am  trying  to  picture  one 
5 


side  of  my  life  as  it  has  been  during  the  last 
few  years.  I  am  trying  to  show  how  an- 
other life  has  touched  my  old  age,  and  made 
it  joyful." 

His  answer  keenly  aroused  my  curiosity. 
Two  young  people  were  in  almost  constant 
attendance  upon  him,  and  I  was  eager  to  know 
whether  either  of  them  was  the  person  whose 
influence  had  been  so  happy.  One  was  a  young 
man,  about  twenty-two  years  old,  with  athletic 
figure,  ruddy  cheeks,  and  laughing  blue  eyes. 
It  was  hard  to  look  into  his  face  without  smil- 
ing in  sympathy  with  his  thorough  boyishness. 
He  was  one  of  those  who  take  life  to  be  just 
what  it  seems  on  its  face  to  be.  The  other 
visitor  was  a  young  woman,  of  perhaps  twenty, 
tall  and  slight.  Her  features  were  not  exactly 
regular,  —  surely  not  classical.  I  doubt  whether 
any  one  who  had  studied  her  face  would  call 
her  handsome,  or  even  pretty.  One  would  not 
ask  whether  she  were  either ;  one  did  not  care, 
—  she  was  so  much  better  than  either.  Beau- 
tiful was  the  word  for  it.  The  charm  came 
from  within. 

6 


*'  In  view  of  the  trouble  your  injured  side 
gives  you,  I  must  say  that  I  admire  your  dili- 
gence," I  answered. 

"  I  don't  mind  that.  My  task  is  worth 
while.  A  young  girl,  whom  you  know,  has 
been  a  great  joy  to  me.  Her  power  for  either 
good  or  evil  in  the  world  is  almost  infinite.  I 
have  known  her  well,  and  I  want  her  to  see 
herself  as  I  see  her.  So  I  am  attempting  to  tell 
the  story  of  her  part  in  my  life.  I  mean  to 
show  her  the  story  some  day." 

Soon  after,  his  eyes  failed  him ;  and  I  became 
his  amanuensis.  He  had  already  carried  the 
outline  of  the  story  to  the  point  where  it  became 
a  journal,  but  in  many  parts  it  was  still  fragmen- 
tary. We  went  back  to  pick  up  the  dropped 
threads,  and  meanwhile  the  journal  was  neg- 
lected. I  witnessed,  however,  the  last  scenes 
of  the  story,  and  thus  can  fill  out  the  unfinished 
manuscript. 

The  time  has  come  when  it  may  be  made 
public  without  annoyance  to  any  one.  Only  a 
change  of  names  is  necessary. 


I. 

AS  I  lie  and  listen  to  approaching  and  retir- 
ing footsteps  in  the  corridor,  I  cannot  help 
wondering  at  the  strange  turn  of  fate  which  has 
brought  me  here.  The  dearest  place  on  earth 
is  the  place  where  one  has  felt  the  deepest  pas- 
sion, whether  of  joy  or  of  sorrow.  How  strange 
that,  though  I  have  wandered  for  forty  years,  I 
was  in  Highbank  when  fate  struck  me  down, 
and  left  me  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  dream ! 
Here  I  lived  my  short  season  of  buoyant  joy ; 
here  I  suffered ;  and  here  began,  long  years  after, 
a  new  life,  which  was  neither  joy  nor  sorrow, 
but  strangely  compounded  of  both.  Indeed,  in 
this  new  life  I  have  lived  over  the  old  life,  — 
but  only  as  autumn  echoes  spring. 

Strangely,  from  my  window  I  can  see  the 
street  corner  where,  nine  years  ago,  the  new 
life  began. 

The  day  was  clear  and  stingingly  cold.  The 
hard-packed  snow  upon  the  sidewalk  rang  at 
8 


every  blow.  The  afternoon  schools  had  just 
closed,  and  the  children  were  flocking  home.  I 
often  say  that  if  one  will  show  me  the  children 
of  a  town,  I  can  tell  at  once  the  character  of  the 
people.  Wherever  I  go,  I  watch  for  them. 
Those  of  Highbank  have  always  had  great  in- 
terest for  me.  I  have  often  wondered  whether 
they  are  unusually  interesting  in  themselves,  or 
whether  the  fact  that  I  was  once  one  of  them, 
and  love  the  town,  makes  me  love  them.  As  I 
stood  waiting  on  the  sidewalk,  I  watched  the 
group  of  girls  approaching  me.  I  had  just 
returned  to  Highbank  after  an  absence  of  ten 
years,  and  I  was  eager  to  see  the  new  genera- 
tion. In  the  group  were  several  attractive  faces. 
One,  in  particular,  held  my  attention.  The 
child  was  about  twelve  years  old,  but  tall  for 
her  age ;  she  was  slight,  and  as  straight  as  an 
Indian,  but  so  well  poised  and  so  graceful  in 
every  step  and  turn  that  one  would  instinctively 
liken  her  to  a  bird.  Her  features  were  not  regu- 
lar, according  to  recognized  standards ;  but  by 
so  much  the  more  was  the  information  which 
they  gave  about  her  character  positive.  Every 
9 


line  meant  something.  Her  mouth  was  large, 
and  the  lips,  though  full,  were  firm  and  free 
from  any  suggestion  of  too  ruddy  coloring ;  her 
eyes  were  a  deep  blue.  As  she  passed  me,  they 
were  kindled  by  an  eager  light  of  sympathy 
with  a  companion's  evident  happiness. 

Several  of  the  girls  were  talking  at  once,  as 
girls  will,  and  none  of  them  particularly  noticed 
a  small  colored  boy  trudging  along  with  a  big 
basket  on  a  sled.  As  they  passed,  the  boy 
pulled  the  sled  a  little  to  one  side  in  order  to 
give  more  room,  and  in  doing  so  slipped  and 
fell.  In  striking  the  sidewalk,  he  hurt  his  hand. 
He  lay  there,  crying  softly,  to  nurse  it.  The 
girl  who  had  interested  me  was  in  the  front  of 
the  group,  and  did  not  see  the  fall.  A  half- 
smothered  exclamation  of  pity  from  one  of  the 
others  must  have  caught  her  ear  after  they  had 
passed,  for  she  turned  suddenly  about,  looked 
back,  and  then  came  running,  with  face  radiant 
with  sympathy.  I  had  in  the  mean  time  ap- 
proached near  enough  to  see  the  tenderness  of 
her  beautiful  eyes  as  she  took  the  boy's  bare  little 
hand  in  her  own  mittened  one.  It  was  hard  to 


believe  that  he  was  not  shivering.  His  clothes 
not  only  were  thin  and  ragged,  but  they  hung 
upon  him  so  loosely  that  it  was  doubtful  whether 
he  had  comfortable  underwear  beneath.  In  a 
moment  he  was  nestled  upon  the  top  of  the 
basket,  with  his  hands  buried  in  the  girl's  muff. 
In  another  moment  she  had  taken  the  sled-rope, 
and  he  was  spinning  over  the  snow.  His  white 
teeth,  shining  between  his  laughing  lips,  belied 
the  freezing  tears  upon  his  sleeve.  The  bruised 
and  tingling  fingers  were  forgotten. 

I  followed  the  gay  party.  Much  to  my 
surprise  and  pleasure,  when  the  boy  had  been 
sent  on  his  way  happy,  the  girl  entered  the 
house  of  an  old  friend,  Arthur  Thomas,  upon 
whom  I  was  intending  to  call  in  the  evening. 


n. 

WHEN  I  was  ushered  into  my  friend's 
library,  I  found  the  child  whom  I  had 
seen  in  the  afternoon,  reading  before  the  open 
fire.       She  rose  as  I   entered,  and   asked  me 
whether  I  wished  to  see  her  uncle. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you,  too,  though  I  fancy  you  don't  know 
that  you  ever  saw  me  before." 

"No,  sir,"  she  replied;  "I  don't  think  I 
ever  have.  Have  I  ?  " 

"I  am  not  sure.  At  any  rate,  I  have  seen 
you  before,  although  I  am  a  stranger  in  town,  — 
at  least,  I  call  myself  a  stranger  here  nowadays." 

"I  can't  imagine  where  you  have  seen  me, 
sir." 

"  Not  long  ago,"  I  replied,  "  I  saw  one  of  a 
group  of  school-girls  leave  her  companions,  and 
after  lending  her  muff  to  a  ragged,  shivering 
negro  boy,  give  him  a  ride.  Did  you  ever 
know  of  a  case  like  that?" 
i* 


"  But  I  should  n't  think  you  would  remem- 
ber me." 

"I  try  always  to  remember  people  who  do 
that  sort  of  thing." 

Arthur  came  in,  and  the  child  started  to  go. 
He  stopped  her;  and  after  introducing  her  as 
his  niece,  Ruth,  he  told  her  that  since  her  own 
room  was  not  warm  enough  for  reading,  she 
would  better  stay  in  the  library.  She  went 
back  to  her  book,  and  my  friend  and  I  talked 
over  the  changes  in  town  and  people  during 
the  thirty  years  since  I  had  first  left  it.  As  he 
was  several  years  younger  than  I,  the  Highbank 
even  of  his  boyhood  was  different  from  that  of 
mine ;  and  he  had  watched  all  the  changes  of 
later  years. 

Arthur  soon  left  the  room  to  hunt  up  some 
old  maps,  and  I  found  an  object  of  absorbing 
interest  in  the  face  by  the  fireside.  The  child 
was  reading  intently,  and  could  not  know  that  I 
was  watching  her.  I  had  never  before  so  much 
regretted  that  I  was  not  an  artist.  In  the  deep 
blue  eyes,  the  fair  brow,  the  brown  hair,  and 
the  rich  coloring  and  delicate  shading  of  abound- 
13 


ing  health  in  the  cheeks,  one  saw  the  essential 
quality  of  all  beauty.  As  in  a  summer  sunrise, 
the  material,  earthly  though  it  was,  transcended 
itself  and  told  only  of  the  ethereal.  No  slight- 
est blemish  or  crude  outline  reminded  of  the 
trammels  of  the  flesh.  The  physical  was  there 
only  to  translate  the  spirituality  into  earthly 
life. 

As  I  watched,  a  smile  played  about  her  lips  ; 
and  then  a  convulsive  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
told  of  the  laugh  which  is  half  of  humor,  half 
of  sympathy.  In  another  moment  tears  suffused 
her  eyes,  and  she  threw  up  her  head  to  look  at 
the  ceiling  until  they  should  go.  She  soon 
returned  to  her  book ;  but  before  she  turned 
the  page,  a  convulsive,  half-stifled  sob  stopped 
the  reading.  When  she  noticed  that  I  was 
watching  her,  the  color  rose  to  her  face,  and 
she  closed  the  book. 

"  Have  you  finished  your  book  ? "  I  asked. 

"No,  sir;  not  quite." 

"  I  should  n't  think  you  would  want  to  stop, 
then ;  for  it  seems  very  interesting." 

She  made  no  response. 
14 


"Is  your  book  sad?"  I  asked. 

"No,  sir;  not  especially." 

"  You  make  me  very  curious,  you  see.  The 
story  must  have  been  a  true  one." 

"No,  sir;  I  don't  think  it  is." 

I  felt  that  fear  of  showing  too  much  feeling 
before  a  stranger  had  brought  the  reading  to  so 
sudden  a  close.  I  was  curious  to  draw  her  out, 
and  to  see  in  what  spirit  she  did  her  reading. 
I  looked  at  her  face  again  carefully  before  ven- 
turing with  my  next  remark. 

"  Some  people,  you  know,  say  that  it  is 
foolish  to  laugh  and  cry  with  the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  stories.  They  ask  why  we  should 
care  about  things  that  never  really  happened." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  ever  thought  of  it 
before,"  she  said.  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
forehead  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  had  been  asked 
a  puzzling  question  in  school.  I  began  to  wish 
that  I  had  not  carried  her  the  suggestion. 
"  Is  n't  it  well,"  she  asked  at  last,  hesitatingly, 
"  to  be  moved  by  any  beautiful  thing,  even  if 
it 's  only  the  thought  of  some  one  who  writes 
stories?  I  don't  know  about  the  sad  parts, 
15 


though,  —  whether  it  is  n't  foolish  to  cry  over 
them  —  unless  —  unless  somehow  it  does  our 
hearts  good  and  makes  them  more  tender  to  have 
sympathy  with  real  trouble." 

"  You  have  given  a  pretty  good  answer  to  the 
critics.  As  you  grow  older,  you  will  probably 
realize  it  more  and  more.  I  think  likely  that 
you  had  been  reading  about  some  kind-hearted 
person  just  before  you  helped  that  little  negro 
boy  this  afternoon." 

"  I  don't  think  that  was  very  kind,"  she  an- 
swered, with  a  pleased  smile  and  a  faint  blush ; 
"I  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  he  did." 

"  It  was  all  the  kinder  of  you  to  do  it  with- 
out stopping  to  think  whether  it  was  kind  or  not. 
You  can  make  a  great  many  people  happy  in  a 
lifetime,  if  you  are  always  as  eager  to  help." 

"  I  'm  sure  it  is  n't  hard  to  do  that  sort  of 
thing,"  was  the  simple  reply. 

Arthur  now  returned  with  the  maps.  Soon 
Ruth  went  off  to  bed.  When  she  had  gone,  I 
asked  about  her. 

"  She  is  the  orphaned  daughter  of  my  wife's 
sister,"  he  replied.    "  Mrs.  Thomas  and  I  wish 
16 


to  keep  her  with  us,  but  the  other  branches  of 
the  family  insist  on  having  her  with  them  a  part 
ot  every  year.  As  a  result,  the  poor  child  has 
no  home,  —  or,  rather,  has  several  homes.  We 
do  not  have  very  much  of  her ;  for  Mrs.  Thomas 
was  much  younger  than  Ruth's  mother,  and  the 
older  aunts  insist  that  they  have  stronger  claims 
to  her.  Everybody  wants  her.  She  comes  to 
us  as  a  godsend ;  and  when  she  leaves  us,  we 
begin  to  look  forward  to  her  coming  back.  I 
can't  help  loving  her  almost  as  if  she  were  my 
own.  I  can  hardly  believe  that  a  child  of  my 
own  would  be  so  thoroughly  lovable." 

On  the  last  day  of  my  stay  in  Highbank,  I 
wandered  out  to  Black  Pond,  which  had  been 
from  time  immemorial  the  favorite  skating-ground 
of  the  town.  The  day  was  clear  and  very  cold, 
but  the  air  was  dry.  It  was  such  a  day  that 
one's  body  seemed  meant  to  soar,  and  one  be- 
came impatient  because  something  —  one  hardly 
knew  what  —  kept  one  tied  to  earth.  I  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  try  skates  once  more. 
I  knew  that  people  would  be  inclined  to  laugh 
at  an  old  man  on  skates ;  but  I  have  a  theory 
17 


that  the  best  way  to  keep  from  growing  old  is  to 
keep  up  the  wise  interests  of  youth. 

As  I  skated  toward  the  secluded  cove  where 
I  once  learned  to  make  the  figure  eight  on  skates, 
I  passed  a  group  of  girls  who  seemed  to  find  it 
hard  to  play  their  game  of  tag  in  harmony.  One 
was  asserting,  in  a  loud  and  peevish  tone,  that 
she  had  tagged  another,  and  the  other  was  strenu- 
ously denying  it.  So  violent  was  the  quarrel 
that  if  the  players  had  been  boys  I  should  have 
looked  for  blows.  The  dispute  was  finally 
settled,  but  the  sullen  looks  remained. 

When  I  reached  the  entrance  of  the  cove,  I 
found  three  girls  in  possession.  Two  were 
standing  still,  watching  the  third.  Few  people 
were  near  that  part  of  the  pond,  and  the  young 
skater  had  abandoned  herself  to  the  whim  of  the 
moment.  I  had  never  before  known  a  woman 
or  girl  to  have  such  mastery  over  skates.  You 
have  seen  a  dog  on  a  joyous  summer  day  run- 
ning across  the  fields  with  all  his  might,  darting 
into  a  thicket,  jumping  over  a  stream,  chasing  a 
bird,  leaping  at  a  butterfly,  and  then  bounding 
back  to  his  master,  only  to  bound  off  again  and 
ll 


repeat  it  all.  The  same  healthy,  passionate 
joy  in  mere  existence  seemed  to  move  in  the 
young  girl's  muscles.  Rolls  and  spins  and 
changes  of  edge  succeeded  each  other  in  rapid 
succession.  Now  and  then  a  graceful  little  leap 
seemed  to  launch  her  spirit  away  from  all  limi- 
tations of  the  body  into  the  air,  as  a  bird  sent  out 
with  a  joyous  message.  I  entered  the  cove  as 
soon  as  she  stopped.  Her  eyes,  her  cheeks,  the 
very  pose  of  her  body,  spoke  of  thrilled  energy. 
When  I  had  approached,  I  saw  that  it  was  my 
friend's  niece. 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "I  wish  you  had 
been  like  this  when  I  was  a  boy.  This  was 
my  favorite  cove,  and  many  a  trick  I  practised 
here;  but  I  never  learned  to  do  any  of  them 
better  than  you  did  just  now.  I  would  have 
given  a  good  deal,  forty  or  fifty  years  ago,  for  a 
girl  companion  who  could  skate  like  that." 

"I  thought  no  one  would  see  me  here,"  she 
answered  with  a  smile.  "  Auntie  says  it  is  n't 
nice  for  girls  to  skate  so  freely  in  public;  it 
attracts  attention.  I  don't  mean,"  she  added 
hastily,  "that  my  skating  was  good  enough  to 
19 


attract  attention,  for  I  know  it  was  n't ;  but 
people  are  n't  used  to  seeing  girls  hop  about  so 
freely  on  skates,  and  so  might  think  that  I  liked 
to  attract  notice." 

"I  can't  say  that  your  aunt  is  wrong  on 
general  principles;  but  surely  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  your  skating  as  freely  as  you  like  in  this 
secluded  place.  It  could  do  no  harm  if  a  few 
people  did  see  you ;  it  would  only  cheer  them 
up  and  put  new  life  into  them  as  it  did  into  me. 
Won't  you  skate  once  round  the  pond  with 
me?  Perhaps,  then,  I  can  catch  something  of 
your  inspiration." 

Though  her  exercise  had  been  violent  and 
long  continued,  her  hand  was  firm,  and  her 
stroke  showed  none  of  the  unsteadiness  of  knee 
and  ankle  which  the  exhausted  skater  tries  in 
vain  to  conceal. 

When  we  reached  the  group  of  girls  who 
were  playing  tag,  another  dispute  was  in  progress. 
Ruth  excused  herself  on  the  ground  that  she  had 
promised  to  join  the  game  after  a  few  moments 
of  skating  in  the  cove.  Her  coming  was  greeted 
with  cries  of  "  Here 's  Ruth ;  we  '11  leave  it 

20 


to  her ! "  The  question  seemed  a  knotty  one. 
The  solution  was  original;  I  suspected  that  it 
was  characteristic  of  the  solver. 

"  I  can't  decide  it,  girls,"  she  exclaimed  after 
a  few  moments  of  puzzling.  "  I  '11  be  '  it '  my- 
self; that 's  the  easiest  way  to  settle  it." 

With  a  smiling  face  she  started  after  the  best 
skaters,  leaving  the  smaller  girls  and  the  poorer 
skaters  opportunity  to  escape.  I  watched  the 
group  for  a  long  time,  but  I  heard  no  more  dis- 
putes. Once  the  situation  was  critical,  but  a 
word  turned  it. 

"  What 's  the  use  of  getting  angry  ? "  I  heard 
her  say ;  "  you  '11  have  to  get  over  it,  and  that 's 
what  hurts  the  most." 

The  girls  laughed,  and  good-nature  was 
restored. 

Most  of  the  skaters  walked  back  to  town. 
I  was  glad  to  find  a  place  in  the  middle  of  the 
line.  Few  companies  suggest  pleasanter  things 
than  a  homeward-bound  skating-party  at  tea- 
time, —  the  afternoon  of  sport,  the  invigoration 
of  spirit  following  from  the  tiring  of  the  muscles, 
the  cheerful  home  tea-table,  where  one  finds, 

21 


not  only  the  reality  of  what  hunger  already  sees 
in  vision,  but  willing  ears  for  eager  lips  to  fill 
with  a  day's  experiences. 

I  was  much  interested  in  the  talk  of  two 
boys  behind  me  ;  evidently  something  had  gone 
wrong  in  school.  I  could  make  out  only  that 
one  of  the  girls  had  been  sent  home  for  insub- 
ordination, and  that  some  of  the  scholars  took 
her  part  and  others  condemned  her. 

When  the  boys  turned  the  corner,  I  slackened 
my  pace  in  the  hope  that  another  interesting 
couple  would  come  within  hearing.  I  had  not 
long  to  wait.  It  happened,  however,  that  Ruth 
came  up  behind  me,  and  I  did  not  feel  justified 
in  lagging  and  overhearing  the  conversation.  I 
caught  only  a  word  now  and  then,  sometimes 
in  her  voice,  sometimes  in  that  of  a  boy  of  fifteen 
or  thereabouts,  and  occasionally  I  heard  her  light 
laugh.  Just  before  we  reached  the  town,  they 
passed  me,  and  I  heard  her  words. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  was  saying ;  "  I  don't 
believe  there  is  any  sense  in  what  Miss  Paterson 
wanted  me  to  do.  Uncle  Arthur  said  he 
couldn't  understand  what  good  it  could  do. 


I  don't  intend  to  waste  my  time  in  that  way ; 
they  may  suspend  me  if  they  like,  or  even  expel 
me.  I  suppose  it 's  an  awful  thing  for  a  girl  to 
be  expelled  from  school ;  but  I  said  I  would  n't 
do  that  work  until  I  saw  some  reason  for  it,  and 
I  won't.  Miss  Paterson  refuses  to  give  any 
sensible  reason,  and  that 's  the  end  of  it.  I 
suppose  it 's  very  wicked,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
They  may  punish  me  —  " 

I   heard  no  more.     The  next  day  I  left 
Highbank. 


III. 

IT  is  strange  that  for  years  our  eyes  will 
remain  closed  to  some  one  or  more  of  the 
best  interests  of  life.  Sometimes,  after  years  of 
blindness,  a  chance  opens  them  suddenly.  I 
found  in  my  friend's  niece  something  which 
threw  new  light  on  young  girls.  In  my  eyes 
they  suddenly  became  interesting.  Few  men 
go  through  life  without  a  season  of  interest  in 
girlhood.  Some  have  it  early ;  but  then  it  is 
almost  sure,  to  use  a  university  phrase,  to  turn 
to  specialization,  and  become  worse  than  useless. 
Others  have  it  late,  and  soon  outgrow  it ;  or 
rather,  should  I  not  say,  grow  away  from  it, 
for  is  there  such  a  thing  as  growing  above  it? 
As  the  years  had  gone  on  with  me,  and  I  had 
become  a  confirmed  bachelor,  girls  became  more 
and  more  foreign  to  my  life.  I  had  known  the 
children  of  my  friends ;  but  when  these  had 
grown  to  be  men  and  women,  I  knew  no  chil- 
dren. One  really  knows  but  two  generations 
24 


besides  one's  own,  —  the  one  above  and  the  one 
below.  We  are  not  likely  to  be  quite  in  touch 
with  the  second  remove. 

What  little  I  saw  of  my  friend's  niece  taught 
me  that  I  had  for  years  closed  my  eyes  to  per- 
haps the  most  interesting  phase  of  human  devel- 
opment, —  that  from  girlhood  to  womanhood. 
Suddenly  I  found  that  my  eyes  were  invariably 
caught  by  a  braid  of  girlish  hair.  So  it  must 
be  with  any  man  when  his  eyes  are  opened. 
The  braid  is  the  sign  of  almost  all  that  is  unlike 
himself.  The  horizon  that  its  wearer  knows 
is  so  small,  and  perchance  so  clear,  so  beautiful ! 
She  knows  a  mother's  and  a  father's  tender  love, 
and  the  no  less  tender  but  disguised  love  of  a 
tormenting  brother  or  sister;  she  fancies  that 
her  friends  are  true  to  her;  duty  is  clear,  —  'tis 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  obedience  to  parents 
and  the  love  of  God ;  her  castles  in  the  air  are 
so  bright  that  it  matters  little  that  they  lack 
definition ;  she  fancies  the  love  of  husband  and 
of  children  coming  to  round  out  the  love  she 
already  knows ;  and  she  fancies  that  they  come 
as  calmly,  unquestioned  and  unquestionable. 


Her  horizon  is  the  horizon  of  day, —  all,  even 
in  the  far  distance,  is  calm,  clear-cut,  compre- 
hensible. And  we  whose  horizon  is  that  of 
night,  we  who  look  on  and  on  and  on  and  see 
myriads  of  stars,  driven  by  immutable,  awful 
powers,  coming  whence  and  bound  whither 
we  know  not,  in  distances  unimaginable,  —  we 
see  that  neat  braid,  swaying  with  the  free  girl- 
ish gait,  and  we  hold  our  breaths  in  reverence. 
What  a  sacred  thing  is  that  innocence !  What 
a  curse  must  be  upon  one  who  breaks  it  rudely, 
thrusting  the  child  out  suddenly  into  the  black 
unknown!  She  will  be  so  terrified  until  her 
eyes  become  used  to  the  darkness,  and  she  can 
discern  the  outstretched  light  of  companionship 
even  in  those  unknown  stars,  and  can  feel  the 
unity  in  all! 

In  the  years  following  my  visit  to  Highbank, 
I  had  good  opportunity  to  study  girls'  faces,  and 
to  watch  their  inner  development.  In  order  to 
have  access  in  my  leisure  to  certain  historical 
documents,  I  had  taken  up  my  residence  in 
Madawanipee,  —  one  of  the  few  New  England 
cities  wise  enough  to  keep  its  Indian  name.  I 
26 


soon  learned  that  Madawanipee  was  justly  noted, 
not  only  for  the  excess  of  the  feminine  element 
in  its  population,  but  for  the  attractiveness  of 
that  element. 

It  was  by  good  fortune  that  I  was  received 
on  familiar  terms  in  several  families  where 
the  children  were  growing  into  manhood  and 
womanhood.  I  came  suddenly  to  realize  how 
empty  was  the  solitude  which  had  of  late  years 
marked  my  way  of  living.  Family  life  came 
to  have  its  old  meaning,  —  the  meaning  which 
made  so  much  of  the  food  of  my  dreams  in 
youth. 

Yet,  though  I  was  a  privileged  guest  in  several 
homes,  I  found  that  I  was  permitted  to  taste  the 
sorrows  rather  than  the  joys  of  parental  care. 
The  children,  of  course,  could  make  little  room 
in  their  hearts  for  the  elderly  stranger ;  and  yet 
my  share  in  the  parental  solicitude  and  sorrow, 
as  the  young  people  grew  up  into  broader  fields 
and  away  from  the  old  paths,  was  large. 

Thanksgiving  Day  of  my  eighth  winter  in 
Madawanipee  was  somehow  particularly  depress- 
ing. Everywhere  about  me  families  were  gath- 
27 


ered  together,  and  most  of  my  older  friends  had 
not  only  children,  but  grandchildren,  at  their 
tables.  My  nephew,  Harry  Templeman,  who 
was  my  only  near  kin,  was  visiting  in  another 
city.  I  dined  alone.  The  evening  I  spent  in 
alternately  cherishing  and  banishing  the  mem- 
ory of  youthful  days  and  youthful  dreams  in 
Highbank. 

I  devoted  the  following  day  to  searching  old 
records  at  the  Court  House.  I  did  not  care  to 
trust  my  spirits  to  less  absorbing  work. 

At  three  o'clock  I  congratulated  myself  that 
my  plans  for  the  day  had  been  well  laid;  for 
success  had  followed  them,  and  I  had  almost 
outlived  the  depression  of  yesterday.  Never 
was  a  clearer  line  of  descent  shown  in  deeds 
and  wills  than  that  which  I  had  traced  from 
John  Chambers  of  Sagadahoc,  yeoman,  son  of 
Thomas  Chambers  of  England,  owner  and  cul- 
tivator of  certain  lands  in  Massachusetts  Bay 
Colony  in  1643.  An  important  link  in  the 
historical  chain  which  I  was  tracing  had  been 
found.  My  work  was  progressing  rapidly  in 
its  last  stages. 

28 


The  sun  broke  out  from  the  clouds,  and  I 
looked  up  from  the  yellow  manuscript  to  watch 
the  floating  cloud-shadows  on  the  hill-tops.  The 
window  chanced  to  be  open,  and  the  breeze 
came  gently  in  and  waved  my  hair.  When  it 
ceased,  the  loosened  locks  fell  down  over  my 
forehead,  playfully.  A  zephyr  came  in,  and 
pushed  the  hair  back.  It  went,  and  came  again 
like  a  woman's  fond  hand,  disarranging  and 
rearranging,  every  touch  a  caress.  My  thoughts 
ran  back  many  years  to  the  hand  which  I 
used  to  dream  would  some  day  rest  upon  my 
brow. 

The  zephyr  quickened  to  a  breeze,  and  the 
breeze  to  a  gust  of  wind.  A  dozen  pages  of 
the  manuscript  volume  before  me  blew  over. 
When  I  put  the  dream  aside  and  looked  down 
at  my  book,  my  eye  fell  on  the  name  of  John 
Chambers,  formerly  of  Falmouth,  England,  son 
of  Thomas  Chambers,  of  Falmouth,  an  immi- 
grant on  the  ship  "  Anne  "  in  1 647.  The  con- 
text showed  clearly  that  this  was  the  man  whose 
line  I  sought  to  trace.  Yet  neither  John  Cham- 
bers of  Sagadahoc  nor  any  of  his  descendants 
29 


had  returned  to  England,  and  none  of  his  ances- 
tors  had  come  from  Falmouth.  There  had 
been  two  men  named  John  Chambers  in  the 
same  neighborhood,  of  about  the  same  age,  sons 
of  fathers  named  Thomas.  Months  of  labor 
had  been  spent  on  the  genealogy  of  the  wrong 
family. 

The  winter  afternoon  was  nearly  over ;  it 
was  too  late  to  begin  a  new  search.  Indeed,  I 
was  hardly  in  the  mood  for  it.  It  seemed  as 
if  nothing  that  I  had  ever  done  or  attempted  to 
do  was  a  success.  At  such  times  one  forgets 
one's  triumphs,  especially  the  things  that  the 
world  calls  triumphs  and  one's  own  ambition 
calls  mere  make-shifts.  I  put  my  papers  back 
into  their  places  and  started  out  to  get  a  little 
freshness  from  Nature,  if  she  had  any  to  offer. 
I  struck  out  of  town  at  random  ;  I  forgot  that  I 
had  started  out  after  freshness.  I  forgot  that  I 
had  ever  had  any  freshness  in  my  life ;  perhaps 
it  was  true  that  I  had  not  had  much.  At  all 
events,  it  was  true  that  none  had  been  thrust  in 
my  way ;  what  I  had  found  had  been  eagerly 
sought.  It  had  been  a  part  of  my  philoso- 
30 


phy  that  life  was  not  only  accidentally,  but 
essentially,  beautiful ;  and  I  had  persisted  in 
finding  that  beauty  everywhere.  Some  of  my 
friends  had  told  me  that  I  forced  my  imagination 
to  see  beauty  where  there  was  none.  But  to- 
night I  gave  up,  for  once,  the  quest  for  beauty. 
Was  it  not  time  that  life  placed  some  in  my 
way? 

About  seven  o'clock  I  passed  over  Promon- 
tory Hill  on  my  way  back  to  town.  I  had  no 
special  reason  for  going  back,  nor  any  reason 
for  going  on ;  I  was  in  the  mood  in  which  one 
has  no  motive  for  anything.  The  lights  of  the 
town  came  into  view.  There  is,  at  the  same 
time,  a  singular  companionship  and  a  singular 
isolation  in  village  lights  at  evening.  The  blank 
stare  of  straight  walls  and  glistening  windows  is 
gone ;  the  walls  have  relaxed  their  features  into 
the  quieter,  mobile  lines  of  night ;  each  visible 
window  tells  some  story,  — the  story  of  a  group, 
or  of  some  lonely  one,  near  by.  In  the  out- 
lying cottages  of  the  town,  the  lights  were  few. 
As  I  passed  the  first,  the  rays  streamed  through 
a  small  hole  in  the  curtain  upon  my  path.  In 


fancy  I  could  see  the  group  gathered  about  the 
recently  cleared  dining-table  within. 

The  father,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  or,  more 
likely,  in  his  jumper,  sits  in  a  rocking-chair 
with  his  weekly  paper  spread  out  before  him. 
One  slipper  has  been  kicked  off,  and  lies  upside 
down  near  his  chair.  Now  and  then  he  stretches 
out  the  slipperless  foot  and  strokes  the  dog  which 
lies  under  the  table.  Occasionally  he  makes  a 
brief  comment  upon  the  news  of  the  week,  or 
asks  one  of  the  children  where  is  Curacoa,  or 
Heligoland,  or  Bucharest.  A  girl  of  twelve  is 
scanning  an  arithmetic  placed  on  the  table  before 
her.  The  baby  wants  a  drink  of  water,  and 
while  she  gets  it  for  him,  the  boys  take  her 
place  near  the  lamp.  When  she  comes  back, 
her  face  falls  a  bit,  hardens,  brightens  again; 
and  without  complaint  she  takes  a  poorer  place, 
further  from  the  light.  The  boys  are  leaning 
on  opposite  corners  of  their  chair,  with  elbows 
on  the  table,  chins  in  hand,  eagerly  discussing 
the  new  "St.  Nicholas"  or  "Youth's  Com- 
panion." The  patient,  tired-faced,  but  ready- 
hearted  mother  is  at  her  mending.  When  the 


last  stocking  is  put  aside,  a  pair  of  tiny  pants  in 
the  making  takes  its  place.  Long  after  the  chil- 
dren have  gone  to  bed,  the  needle  will  fly. 
Yet,  perchance,  she  will  dip  into  some  book  for 
half  an  hour,  even  after  the  father  has  gone  to 
bed. 

In  that  single  group  are  found  the  four  chief 
types  of  human  thought  and  feeling.  The  father 
has  won  his  place  in  the  world,  humble  though 
it  is,  and  he  foresees  no  evil,  no  new  joy ;  he 
is  content  with  the  daily  life  of  the  shop  and 
the  evening  group.  The  boys,  too,  are  con- 
tent ;  but  theirs  is  the  content  of  fearless  hope- 
fulness. For  them  there  is  no  past,  and  the  future 
has  no  fears ;  they  do  not  even  prepare  for  it. 
The  day's  lessons  are  learned,  or  half-learned, 
and  there  's  the  end  of  it ;  the  future  will  take 
care  of  the  tasks  of  the  future,  and  the  word 
"  fail "  does  not  enter,  even  indirectly,  into  their 
forecasts.  The  mother's  place  in  the  world,  like 
the  father's,  has  been  won ;  but  it  is  not  joyous. 
Her  work,  so  nearly  infinite,  is  never  done, 
because  strength  is  finite ;  yet  her  responsibility 
for  the  children  is  even  more  nearly  infinite. 
33 


She  longs  for  time  and  knowledge  to  look  into 
the  broader  world  of  art  and  music  and  litera- 
ture, that  she  may  open  the  children's  eyes ;  but 
they  must  be  first  fed  and  clothed,  and  time  — 
oh,  time !  And  so  her  life  is  one  of  thought- 
lessness of  the  future  for  self,  but  wholly  in  the 
future  for  her  children.  The  daughter  is  not 
easy-going,  like  the  boys ;  she,  too,  dreams,  — 
perhaps  more  than  they, — but  her  dreams  rest 
so  much  more  on  contingencies.  See  the  deter- 
mination with  which  she  works  at  her  arith- 
metic, —  perchance  the  weariest  work  she  ever 
did.  Life  is  a  bigger  word  with  her  than  with 
any  of  the  others.  Nature  made  her  with  so 
much  to  hope  for,  so  little  to  win  with ! 

We  must  hold  out  the  hand  of  sympathy  to 
each  one  in  the  group,  —  for  the  father,  it  is  in 
good  fellowship ;  for  the  mother,  in  pity  and 
praise ;  for  the  boys,  in  admiration  ;  but  for  the 
girl,  in  love.  We  cannot  help  it.  Life  is  so 
big  a  thing  for  her,  and  she  is  so  nearly  power- 
less, unhelped,  to  make  it  what  she  would,  that 
nothing  less  than  our  whole  hearts  is  worthy  of 
our  sympathy. 

34 


Across  the  way,  the  light  in  the  attic  was 
a  lonely  one.  My  fancy  could  see  the  poor 
farmer  boy  who  had  come  to  the  town  to  make 
his  fortune.  The  world  goes  hard  with  him ; 
or,  perchance,  goes  by  easily  and  leaves  him 
behind.  His  employers  are  crabbed.  His 
fellow-workmen  are  trashy  youths  about  town, 
always  intent  on  some  supper,  or  smoking-party, 
or  ball,  or  perhaps  a  flirtation  with  some  giddy 
school-girl  or  worse.  The  very  air  they  breathe 
seems  tainted  with  stale  tobacco-smoke,  or  liquor 
fumes,  or  strong  perfumery  from  some  woman's 
dress.  The  thoughts  that  seem  to  fill  their  heads 
are  the  sins,  real  or  imaginary,  of  those  they 
know.  They  boast  of  their  own  transgressions. 
Even  if  he  goes  to  church  on  Sunday,  he  hears 
only  of"  miserable  sinners,  all."  He  has  begun 
to  wonder  whether  there  is  any  virtue  in  the 
world.  Is  no  one  above  suspicion  ?  He  thinks 
of  the  sweet  face  whose  cheek  he  kissed  the 
evening  before  he  came  away  from  home.  Was 
she  like  these  people  he  hears  about?  Is  he 
alone,  in  all  the  world,  hungering  and  thirsting 
after  righteousness,  and  fighting  the  evil  that 
35 


tempts  ?  He  longs  to  look  squarely  into  some 
earnest,  pure  face,  and  hear  words  and  see  deeds 
that  confirm  his  faith.  Great  God,  he  will  go 
crazy  if  this  unmasking  of  vice  goes  on  much 
longer !  But  is  it  vice  ?  Has  he  not  mistaken 
what  is  merely  not  highest  for  what  is  lowest  ? 
The  world  cannot  be  all  wrong !  It  must  be 
he  that  is  wrong.  He  will  give  up  the  old 
faith ;  he  will  fall  into  line  with  the  world. 
He  will  go  out  and  seek  company  where  it  may 
be  found,  perhaps  for  the  asking,  perhaps  only 
for  gold.  But,  oh,  such  company  !  His  heart 
revolts.  He  will  hold  to  the  old  faith  one  day 
more,  at  least.  He  will  stay  at  home  and  read 
his  "  Othello  "  or  "  Cymbeline."  Hope  will 
not  die  yet ! 

As  I  went  further  into  town,  the  lights  became 
thicker,  —  not  only  because  the  houses  were 
more  numerous,  but  because  they  were  larger. 
I  could  fancy  the  groups  about  the  pianos  or 
library-tables.  I  felt  that  if  I  could  only  look 
deep  enough,  I  should  find  the  same  story  told 
everywhere.  "Hope  springs  eternal  in  the 
human  breast."  The  mother,  in  the  big  house 
36 


over  there,  worries  over  her  wayward  son  or 
her  vain  daughter;  but  she  never  gives  up. 
She  dreams  of  the  time  when  their  veiled  eyes 
shall  be  open,  and  that  dream  is  her  life.  The 
young  people  next  door  may  be  discontented, 
rebellious  against  fate ;  but  they  grind  their  teeth 
in  determination,  and  their  joy  —  and  they  will 
come  some  day  to  confess  that  it  was  greater 
than  they  knew — is  in  that  determination.  Per- 
haps the  father  has  lost  his  property,  and,  what 
he  really  cares  about,  his  good  name  is  smirched. 
His  dream,  his  life,  is  to  win  that  name  free  of 
all  reproach,  and  he  glories  in  the  effort. 

I  came  into  sight  of  my  own  dark  window. 
Suppose  it  had  been  lighted  and  I  had  been  sit- 
ting within,  would  that  light  tell  a  story  of 
hope  ?  Had  my  theory  of  life  failed  in  my  own 
case  ?  What  was  I  looking  forward  to  ?  Would 
it  make  any  difference  to  me,  even  so  far  as  satis- 
faction in  this  life  was  concerned,  if  I  died  to- 
morrow ?  I  loved  to  wander  in  the  woods  and 
fields,  to  hear  the  birds  and  see  the  flower-life, 
to  encounter  winds  and  rains  and  watch  the 
changing  colors,  to  read  books  and  hear  music ; 
37 


but  my  life  amounted  to  nothing  else.  I  had 
no  near  kin,  no  near  friends.  No  one  welcomed 
me  if  I  came,  missed  me  if  I  went.  To  be 
sure,  the  little  Flynns  rejoiced  when  I  left  a  bag 
of  apples  in  my  clothes-basket,  and  the  poor 
consumptive  boy  in  the  next  street  counted  the 
hours  till  my  landlady  should  appear  at  his  back- 
gate  with  a  part  of  my  Sunday  dinner.  (I 
always  wanted  my  Sunday  dinner  large  enough 
for  two,  though  I  never  ate  heartily ;  and  as  I 
disliked  to  have  things  wasted,  I  sent  my  surplus 
over  to  the  patient.)  My  heart  was  always  a 
bit  warmed  by  the  young  Flynns'  shy  smiles 
when  I  saw  them  on  the  street,  and  by  the 
consumptive's  weekly  message ;  but  such  things 
are  not  more  than  surface-deep.  It  was  not  I 
whom  they  thanked ;  it  was  the  giver  of  a  few 
trifles.  That  was  all  they  knew  of  me.  What 
did  any  one  know  of  me?  To  some,  I  was  the 
old  man  who  went  to  the  Court  House  for  a 
while  every  day,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  time 
in  the  open  air ;  to  others,  I  was  an  elderly 
gentleman  who  took  a  little  interest  in  the  various 
kinds  of  charitable  work  in  town ;  to  a  few,  I 
38 


was  a  tolerably  entertaining,  occasional  evening 
guest;  to  my  nephew,  I  was  an  enigma,  like 
all  other  elderly  men. 

What  could  such  a  life  as  mine  amount  to? 
I  was  not  too  old  to  do  yet  some  good  ;  I  could, 
perhaps,  carry  comfort  or  cheer  to  some  one  in 
shadow ;  could  make  some  one's  hope  a  reality  ; 
and  so  my  life  would  mean  something  to  the 
world.  Yet,  even  then,  how  much  would  it 
mean  to  me? 

I  felt  no  satisfactory  purpose  for  doing  any- 
thing.    I  was  too  listless  even  to  go  home.     I 
stopped  under  a  window  where  I  heard  singing ; 
a  plaintive  melody  voiced  the  words :  — 
"  The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  day  dies 
With  the  setting  sun. 

"  The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 
When  love  is  done." 

I  wandered  on  mechanically.     Yes,  it  was 
true ;  I  could,  indeed,  do  good  in  the  world,  and 
39 


make  that  my  life.  But  even  in  that  where  was 
satisfaction?  Even  virtue  loses  its  sweetness 
when  no  one  cares  that  we  are  virtuous.  I 
might  win  gratitude  ;  but  was  it  worth  while  ? 
Gratitude  binds  hearts  closer,  but  it  also  keeps 
them  from  touching.  Life  is  not  wholly  lived 
unless  the  heart  is  so  close  to  another  that  even 
gratitude  cannot  pass  between.  It  is  not  enough 
to  find  some  one  to  serve ;  that  some  one  must 
care  that  it  is  I  who  serve.  I  had  none  to  care ; 
none  had  ever  cared. 

The  sky  was  now  clear.  The  moon  had 
risen  above  the  houses,  and  was  shedding  its 
soft  light  upon  the  snow.  The  shadows  of  the 
bare  trees  were  spread  in  delicate  tracery  over 
the  snow-drifts;  I  could  not  help  stopping  to 
admire.  The  hand  of  man  never  made  any- 
thing so  beautiful.  I  forgot,  for  the  moment, 
that  I  had  been  disconsolate.  I  could  not  help 
being  thankful  for  that  beauty.  Then  came  the 
question  :  Is  it  like  a  child  pleased  with  a  toy 
that  I  thank  God  for  this  beauty,  or  do  I  thank 
Him  for  Himself?  Do  I  love  Him  merely  as 
a  giver  of  gifts,  or  do  I  love  Him  for  Him- 
40 


self?  Could  I  offer  God  less  than  I  asked  for 
myself? 

Despair  had  come  in ;  but  when  I  had  come 
to  myself  there  was  no  room  for  it,  —  hope  had 
driven  it  out.  I  had  merely  forgotten,  for  a 
moment,  how  much  One  cared.  There  was  a 
goal  yet  to  push  for.  To  be  sure,  in  the  past, 
the  goals  had  slipped  mysteriously  away,  even 
as  I  was  about  to  touch  them,  and  the  heart 
had  been  often  sore;  but  I  had  learned  —  how 
strangely  forgotten!  —  that  though  the  goals  of 
life  are  many,  they  are  all  in  the  same  race, 
reaching  toward  the  fulness  of  the  stature  of  him 
they  call  Jesus  the  Christ.  The  goals  midway 
are  but  to  cheer.  We  run  more  easily  for  seeing 
a  distance-mark  near  at  hand.  What  matters 
it  though  the  goal  slips  away  even  before  our 
eyes  ?  The  race  is  no  longer.  We  have  merely 
lost  the  help  of  cheer  by  the  way.  We  may 
even  rejoice  more  heartily  that  we  shall  win 
uncheered. 

My  courage  came  back.  I  even  thought 
with  pleasure  of  the  concert  with  which  Mada- 
wanipee  was  to  be  favored  that  evening.  The 
4* 


orchestra,  which  came  from  the  city,  was  famous. 
The  programme,  too,  was  admirably  suited  to 
my  mood. 

The  concert  began  with  the  glorious  Fifth 
Symphony  of  Beethoven.  As  I  listened,  eyes 
closed,  I  fancied  that  I  saw  at  the  other  end  of 
the  row  a  familiar  face,  —  a  face  that  has  been 
before  my  eyes  in  memory  for  many  years.  I 
lived  over  again  one  evening  in  my  student-life 
in  Berlin. 

It  was  a  stormy  night,  that  night  in  Berlin ; 
but  the  company  was  light-hearted.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  row  sat  "  My  Glorious  One,*' 
as  I  called  her  to  myself,  and  so  I  was  light- 
hearted,  too.  All  day  I  had  feared  that  she  was 
ill,  for  she  had  been  absent  from  a  morning 
company  in  which  I  had  expected  to  see  her; 
but  at  the  door  we  had  just  had  a  word  together, 
and  she  had  made  me  happy  by  treating  as  sin- 
cere the  earnestness  of  my  inquiry  whether  she 
had  been  ill.  The  first  movement  of  the  sym- 
phony carried  me  out  of  myself  into  another 
world.  Yet,  in  the  second  movement,  it  was 
hard  to  live  in  any  world  at  all,  —  the  pleasure 
42 


of  living  was  almost  a  pain.  I  wanted  to  cry 
out  for  just  a  little  less  of  the  exquisite  thrill 
which  was  running  through  me.  It  was  doubly 
rich  because  I  knew  that  Agnes  was  hearing  and 
feeling  it  all.  At  the  end  of  the  movement  I 
turned  my  head  and  opened  my  eyes.  Her 
eyes  were  still  closed;  but  the  face,  which  was 
set  off  by  the  spotlessness  of  a  white  opera  cloak 
and  a  crown  of  rich  waving  hair,  was  radiant. 
As  I  watched,  she  lifted  her  head,  and  her  eyes 
fell  upon  me.  She  gave  me  a  quick  smile  of 
sympathy.  Once  more,  at  the  end  of  the  con- 
cert, the  same  look  was  given  me ;  and  then  I 
hurried  away  by  dark,  unfrequented  ways,  lest 
I  should  see  some  unsightly  thing.  I  even 
grudged  the  streets  entry  to  my  eyes.  I  wanted 
to  get  away  to  the  bridge,  where  I  might  look 
up  into  the  sky  and  let  that  smile  imprint  itself 
upon  my  memory.  I  felt  it  slipping  from  me 
before  I  could  fix  it  firmly.  Oh,  poor,  weak 
imagination !  The  vision  was  at  best  but  inter- 
mittent. I  went  home  disconsolate.  I  had 
failed  to  make  the  vision  mine,  and  she  might 
never  smile  upon  me  so  again ! 
43 


How  many  times  I  had  thought  of  that  even- 
ing in  Berlin !  Even  here  in  Madawanipee, 
years  after,  I  could  see  and  feel  it  all  again.  At 
the  end  of  the  second  movement  of  the  sym- 
phony, I  opened  my  eyes,  expecting  to  see  the 
monotonous  array  of  semi-animated  Madawani- 
pee Sunday-best.  The  majority  of  such  audi- 
ences are  stoical,  —  or  are  they  even  brutally 
inappreciative  ?  Yet  this  was  not  what  I  saw. 
Was  I  still  dreaming?  Was  not  that  the  same 
face,  the  hair,  the  brow,  the  closed  eyes,  the 
coloring,  the  lips,  the  chin  ?  While  I  was  gaz- 
ing, startled,  the  young  woman  opened  her  eyes ; 
they  were  blue  like  the  sea.  Then  I  knew  that 
I  was  not  dreaming.  Yet,  in  another  moment, 
it  was  hard  to  be  assured.  Her  face  lighted 
with  a  smile  that  was  quick,  free,  sympathetic. 
At  the  same  moment,  as  she  turned  to  speak,  I 
heard  tones  that  seemed  to  have  come  unbidden 
from  my  quickened  memory.  The  tap  of  the 
conductor's  baton  reassured  me  that  I  was  not 
dreaming. 

It  was  thirty-five  years  ago  that  I  had  parted 
from  "My  Glorious  One."  It  then  seemed 


incredible  that  God  should  have  shown  to  me 
so  much  of  earth's  nobility  if  I  were  to  be  robbed 
of  it  forever.  So  in  faith  and  hope  and  memory 
she  lived  with  me  for  twenty  years,  and  then 
she  died. 

Now  perhaps  my  faith  was  justified.  Was 
not  this  the  same  soul  returned  to  earth  in  almost 
the  same  garb  ?  If  it  had  come  back  to  earth, 
could  it  come  back  to  me  ?  Would  it  know 
me  ?  Would  it  scorn  my  years  ?  From  the 
orchestra,  which  had  gone  on  to  the  Liebestod 
from  Wagner's  "  Tristan  und  Isolde,"  seemed 
to  come  my  answer.  Even  death  cannot  sepa- 
rate those  who  cling  to  each  other.  But  I  had  no 
reason  to  think  that  Agnes  cared  even  to  remem- 
ber me,  —  or  had  ever  cared.  Perhaps  the 
likeness  of  my  old  love  had  come  back  to  taunt 
me! 

I  looked  into  the  girl's  face  again,  and  the  fear 
fled.  There  could  be  nothing  but  cheer  in 
those  eyes  and  those  lips  and  that  brow.  I  had 
a  curious  feeling  that  they  brought  cheer  in  spe- 
cial measure  for  me.  At  the  same  time  the 
orchestra  took  up  a  triumphal  march,  serious  in 
45 


tone  and  rich  in  harmony.  When  we  came 
out  upon  the  sidewalk,  the  spell  had  not  been 
wholly  broken.  I  was  living  half  in  the  past, 
half  in  the  present.  I  must  hear  that  voice 
once  more.  The  young  woman  was  but  a 
little  way  ahead  of  me,  and  by  dint  of  hurrying 
through  the  crowd  I  secured  a  place  directly 
behind  her.  She  was  talking  about  the  con- 
cert, but  I  seemed  to  hear  a  different  story,  — 
an  old  story,  as  old  as  the  world,  as  old  to  me 
almost  as  my  manhood.  I  was  tempted  to  fol- 
low the  voice  as  far  as  I  could,  but  I  refrained. 
Instead,  after  her  party  turned  into  a  cross  street, 
I  hurried  home,  lighted  a  candle  in  front  of  an 
old  daguerreotype  upon  my  mantel,  pulled  my 
easy-chair  before  the  open  fire,  and  gave  myself 
up  to  dreaming. 

An  hour  later,  my  nephew  tapped  at  my 
door.  I  did  not  let  him  in.  Was  it  jealousy 
of  youth  that  stayed  my  hand  upon  the  latch  ? 


46 


IV. 

SUNDAY  was  raw  and  sunless.  There 
was  not  even  a  breeze  to  give  something 
of  life,  —  something  to  struggle  against,  and  call 
out  energy.  Great  masses  of  leaden  clouds 
were  lying  heavily  in  the  east.  Now  and  then 
the  faint  outline  of  the  sun  could  be  perceived 
through  the  thinner  clouds  in  the  south,  but  it 
never  gave  even  a  promise  of  sunshine.  The 
west  was  a  monotonous  gray.  The  atmosphere 
seemed  to  press  upon  one  from  all  sides,  and  to 
penetrate  every  garment  until  it  bore  with  all  its 
rawness  on  one's  very  flesh.  The  light  snow 
which  had  fallen  early  in  the  week  had  been 
but  partially  carried  off  by  the  daily  thaws,  and 
yet  it  had  been  but  half  frozen  by  night ;  it 
was  lying  in  patches,  smutty,  soft,  characterless. 
Even  the  church  bells  were  oppressed  by  the 
day  ;  their  vibrations  fell  heavy  on  the  unbuoy- 
ant  air.  When  I  stepped  out  of  the  house  on 
my  way  to  church,  I  thought  half  the  popula- 
47 


tion  of  Madawanipee  must  be  widowed.  Three- 
fourths  of  the  women  were  in  black.  Even  the 
people  who  were  supposed  to  be  gay  seemed 
to  shrink  within  their  clothes  to  get  away  from 
the  harsh  air. 

A  couple  of  my  chance  acquaintances  hap- 
pened to  be  passing.  I  fell  into  the  line  of 
church-goers  behind  them,  and  overheard  their 
conversation. 

"  On  such  a  morning,"  said  one,  "  you  forget 
that  there  ever  was  any  sun,  either  for  light  or 
for  warmth.  You  find  it  hard  to  be  thankful 
for  anything." 

"  Very  true  ;  and  it 's  hard  to  be  hopeful  for 
the  future.  We  fear  that  when  January  i  comes 
round,  the  balance  will  be  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  balance-sheet.  It 's  lucky  the  feeling 
goes  off  when  the  sun  comes  out." 

"  Yes ;  I  feel  the  change  coming  already. 
Look  over  there."  As  he  spoke,  he  jerked  his 
head  to  indicate  the  other  side  of  the  street. 

A  little  girl,  about  three  years  old,  wrapped 
in  white,  was  approaching  us.  Every  moment 
or  two  she  looked  back  over  her  shoulder,  as 
48 


she  trotted  laughingly  along,  half  running,  half 
walking.  A  boy  of  five  or  six  was  pretending 
to  chase  her.  Their  cheeks  were  red,  and  their 
eyes  were  sparkling.  The  girl  was  chuckling 
with  delight.  Behind  came  a  young  woman, 
who  encouraged  the  child  by  an  occasional  wave 
of  the  hand.  When  the  little  one  had  been 
caught,  both  children  returned  to  her.  The 
group  was  indeed  a  bit  of  sunshine.  The 
young  woman  in  the  centre  walked  with  light, 
well-poised  step ;  the  chubby  little  tottering 
figure  on  her  right  was  looking  up  into  her  face, 
while  the  tongue  told  its  broken  story  ;  on  the 
left,  and  in  advance,  the  boy  was  half  walking, 
half  hopping,  now  sideways,  now  backwards, 
trying,  yet  with  patience,  to  get  a  chance  to  give 
his  version  of  the  story.  One  could  not  look 
at  the  six  bright  eyes  and  six  red  cheeks  and  call 
the  day  cold  and  dreary. 

As  they  passed,  I  saw  that  the  young  woman 
was  the  one  whom  I  had  seen  at  the  concert. 
The  men  in  front  of  me  were  still  watching. 

"  That 's  what  it  is  to  be  young,"  said  one 
of  them. 

49 


"No,  my  friend,"  I  interrupted,  "that's 
not  what  it  is  to  be  young.  Look  at  those 
young  people  ahead  of  you,  —  dull  of  face, 
half-crouching  with  fear  of  cold,  listless  in  step. 
What  you  see  across  the  street,  in  the  young 
woman,  at  least,  is  not  youth  of  years,  but 
youth  of  heart." 

There  is  one  thing  in  an  old  bachelor's  life 
that  even  the  gayest  youth  may  envy:  he  is 
utterly  independent,  —  unless,  indeed,  he  has 
allowed  himself  to  get  into  ruts  which  have  no 
cross-cuts.  I  come  and  go  as  the  whim  takes 
me  ;  or  does  it  better  become  my  dignity  to  say 
that  I  come  and  go  as  my  reason  dictates  ?  I 
change  my  dinner  hour  from  six  to  seven,  and 
yet  .1  need  not  hurry  to  meet  evening  engage- 
ments. I  forget  to  go  to  the  post-office  for  two 
or  three  days,  and  it  does  n't  matter.  I  go  to 
bed  at  ten,  or  at  two,  or  not  at  all,  as  I  take  a 
notion,  and  nobody  protests, —  unless  my  own 
nerves  and  digestive  apparatus  must  be  recog- 
nized as  somebody.  I  am  too  lazy  to  get  a 
new  suit  of  clothes  when  the  season  changes, 
and  the  same  laziness  continues  season  after  sea- 
5° 


son,  and  yet  nobody  looks  askance.  I  may  go 
to  a  strange  church  several  weeks  in  succession, 
and  yet  our  little  Madawanipee  world  does  not 
wonder  what  sudden  "  attraction "  I  have 
found. 

So  when  the  group  which  I  had  been  watch- 
ing turned  toward  the  Baptist  church,  I  immedi- 
ately changed  my  own  intention,  and  followed. 
I  was  curious  to  see  more  of  the  young  woman. 
Besides,  I  should  have  an  opportunity  to  see 
something  of  one  of  the  interesting  girls  who 
had  grown  up  before  my  eyes.  Miss  Campbell 
was  just  behind  the  others.  Harry,  my  nephew, 
was  with  her.  She  looked  as  if  she  were  shiver- 
ing with  the  cold.  For  once  she  was  not 
stately.  She  turned  her  head  as  I  approached. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Robertson.  Are  n't 
we  all  very  pious  this  morning  ?  " 

'« We  appear  so  outwardly.  I  can't  speak 
for  our  conditions  within." 

"If  we  are  as  humble  inwardly  as  we  look 

outwardly,  we  must  be  in  very  humble  frames 

of  mind,"  said   Harry.      "  I   have  just   been 

telling  Miss  Campbell  that  she  looks  as  if  she 

5* 


did  n't  dare  say  her  soul 's  her  own  this  morn- 
ing. This  weather  does  n't  agree  with  her." 

"  But  if  I  freeze  to  death,"  Miss  Campbell 
answered,  with  a  triumphant  smile,  "my  soul 
departs  this  life,  and  then  it  is  n't  my  own  any 
longer.  Besides,  would  n't  it  be  a  bit  blasphe- 
mous to  go  to  church  declaring  that  one's  soul 
is  one's  own  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  hear  noth- 
ing else  in  church  but  that  my  soul  is  n't  my 
own." 

"  In  other  words,  you  listen  to  only  about 
one  sermon  in  ten,"  suggested  Harry. 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you  any  more," 
she  exclaimed,  with  a  pout.  "  You  are  not  in 
the  proper  mood  for  church-going.  I  'm  going 
to  talk  to  Mr.  Robertson." 

"  What  is  the  proper  mood  for  church- 
going  ? "  persisted  Harry. 

"  Oh,  a  spirit  of  reverence  and  adoration  and 
saying  your  prayers,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  That 's  just  my  mood.  Have  n't  you  seen 
adoration  in  my  eyes  every  time  you  've  looked 
into  them  this  morning,  and  have  n't  I  been 
making  sundry  petitions  ?  " 


She  could  not  repress  the  smile  that  came 
unwelcomed,  but  she  did  not  look  at  him. 

"  Mr.  Robertson,"  she  said,  "  your  nephew 
has  been  trying  to  persuade  me  that  I  ought  to 
join  the  party  which  is  going  down  to  Hamp- 
ton to-morrow  to  see  the  opening  of  the  new 
academy.  Don't  you  agree  —  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  Harry  broke  in ;  "but  I  don't 
try  to  persuade  people.  I  was  trying  to  prove 
to  you  that  you  ought  to  go." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  laughed  archly. 

"  I  was  n't  talking  to  you,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  were  talking  about  me." 

"  You  ought  not  to  object  to  that,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"  But  she  was  maligning  me. " 

"  How  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  said  I  persuaded.  That 's  a  woman's 
way  ;  men  prove,  not  persuade. " 

She  looked  him  over  with  feigned  new  interest. 

"  In  other  words,  you  are  neither  man  nor 
woman,"  she  said  ;  "  for  by  your  own  confes- 
sion you  don't  persuade,  and  most  certainly  you 
did  n't  prove." 

53 


We  were  now  at  the  church  door.  I  did 
not  hear  the  rest  of  the  mock  controversy 
between  them. 

So  far  as  the  service  was  concerned,  our 
selection  of  churches  was  poorly  made.  The 
preacher  may  have  been  a  very  worthy  man, 
but  his  worth  did  not  lie  in  his  choice  of  mes- 
sages for  the  congregation.  He  spent  his  half- 
hour  in  trying  to  reconcile  us  to  the  existence 
of  poverty  on  the  ground  that  the  Bible  sanc- 
tions it,  —  that  is,  recognizes  it. 

Most  of  the  people  soon  decided  that  it  was 
not  worth  while  to  listen  to  so  childish  a  phi- 
losophy. Every  one  was  in  quest  of  some  occu- 
pation. Even  the  children  realized  that  less 
repression  than  usual  was  to  be  exercised  against 
them.  The  little  three-year-old  whom  I  had 
watched  on  the  street  soon  learned  that  if  she 
could  content  herself  with  communication  by 
means  of  eyes  and  smiles  she  need  not  lack  for 
playmates.  Her  face  was  a  marvel  of  mobility. 
The  tiny  mouth  had  scores  of  silent  stories 
to  tell ;  with  the  aid  of  eyes  and  nose,  it  had, 
perhaps,  hundreds. 

54 


At  first,  though  but  two  pews  separated  us, 
she  did  not  think  of  counting  me  as  one  of  her 
playmates.    As  she  kneeled  in  her  seat  and  sur- 
veyed the  audience  behind,  her  sweet,  dimpled 
face  was  too  charming  to  be  looked  at  coldly.    I 
smiled  by  myself  as  I  watched  her.    She  caught 
the  smile,  and  thought  that  it  was  meant  for 
her;  but  she  did  not  return  it.     In  a  moment 
she  looked  back  archly  to  see  whether  I  was 
watching    her.     I    scowled   slightly,    and  she 
turned  away  with  a  puzzled  expression.    When 
she  looked  at  me  again,  I  pretended  that  I  did 
not  see  her ;  but  by  directing  my  line  of  vision 
just  above  her  head  I  could  still  catch  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face.      She  was  a  trifle  piqued. 
Could  so  young  a  girl  be  a  thorough  coquette  ? 
Did  the  perplexed  look  on  her  face  mean  that 
she  was  puzzling  out  how  to  get  my  attention 
again  ?     I  did  not  keep   her  long  waiting ;  I 
feared  to  lose  so  charming  a  flirtation.    I  dropped 
my  eyes  to  a  level  with  hers.      She  turned  her 
head  slowly  away,  but  kept  her  eyes  on  mine 
until  the  angle  became  uncomfortable ;  then  the 
little  chin  went  down  behind  the  pew-back,  the 
55 


nose  disappeared,  and  soon  I  could  see  only 
the  hat  and  eyebrows.  In  another  moment  I 
saw  two  bright  eyes.  A  bewitching,  half- 
suppressed  little  smile  made  its  appearance  over 
the  pew.  It  was  too  much  for  my  gravity  ;  I 
smiled  outright,  half  in  answer,  half  in  amuse- 
ment. Her  smile  could  be  no  longer  suppressed. 
I  had  won  her  little  heart. 

Yet,  true  to  her  woman  nature,  she  was 
conscience-stricken  at  her  confession.  She  clam- 
bered back  to  her  place,  and  gave  her  attention 
to  the  people  in  front  of  her.  I  could  see, 
however,  that  the  fruits  behind  were  still  very 
tempting,  for  she  half  turned  several  times.  I 
could  watch  the  course  of  gradual  surrender. 
It  was  surely  not  wrong  to  face  the  back  of  the 
church  !  So  she  resumed  her  kneeling  position. 
Eyes,  mouth,  and  tiny  turned-up  nose  —  for  in 
mobile  faces  even  noses  can  talk — held  a  long 
conference  on  the  relative  advantages  of  obeying 
conscience  and  of  flirting  with  a  stranger.  The 
mouth  insisted  on  flirting ;  the  eyes  inclined 
to  it  now  and  then,  though  they  occasionally 
repented  long  enough  at  a  time  to  put  on  a  very 
56 


serious  air ;  but  the  nose,  in  spite  of  a  tendency 
toward  jollity,  was  uncompromising  in  its  adher- 
ence to  the  strictly  legitimate.  The  conversa- 
tion ran  somewhat  like  this :  — 

"  I  wonder  whether  he  is  looking  at  me.  I 
believe  he  is,  and  I  'm  glad ;  but  I  must  n't  let 
him  know  it.  —  Of  course  he  does  n't  expect 
me  to  smile  at  him.  —  I  believe  he  does ;  but 
I  won't  smile  at  a  stranger.  I  wonder  why  he 
wants  me  to.  —  How  pleasant  he  looks !  It 
makes  me  want  to  smile.  —  Oh,  dear,  it 's 
coming,  and  I  can't  help  it !  —  But  I  must  n't. 
—  There,  I  did  n't ;  but  he  ought  not  to  look 
at  me  so  steadily.  —  Now  what  is  he  laughing 
at  ?  I  want  very  much  to  know.  I  shall  have 
to  smile,  too,  if  he  does  n't  stop.  —  Here  it  is ! 
and  what  a  nice  smile  he  gave  me  !  —  Was  n't 
it  nice  ?  Let 's  try  again  !  —  There  !  What 
fun  !  —  But  perhaps  it 's  naughty.  I  think  I  '11 
turn  round." 

By  this  time,  her  little  brother  had  become 
solicitous  for  her  moral  welfare.  The  differ- 
ence in  age  was  just  enough  to  give  him  almost 
a  paternal  interest  in  the  tiny  bit  of  mortality  at 
57 


his  side.  He  spoke  to  the  young  woman.  She 
smiled  into  the  baby's  face,  and  cuddled  it  close 
to  her  side. 

At  the  close  of  the  service,  I  heard  her  rich 
contralto  voice  ringing  out  in  the  grand  old 
"  Dennis." 

I  walked  down  the  aisle  with  Mrs.  Pembroke, 
the  leader  in  the  social  life  of  Madawanipee  and 
the  prime  mover  in  most  of  our  charitable  enter- 
prises; for  in  our  quiet  town  the  two  positions 
are  not  at  all  incompatible.  In  the  vestibule 
we  paused  to  complete  our  arrangements  for  a 
meeting  of  the  associated  charities. 

"Pardon  me  a  moment,"  she  exclaimed 
suddenly,  as  she  started  forward. 

"  Ruth,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you.  I  heard 
that  you  had  come,  but  I  have  n't  caught  a 
glimpse  of  you  before."  I  turned,  and  found 
her  talking  to  the  stranger  in  whom  I  had  become 
so  much  interested.  "  What  a  fortunate  woman 
Mrs.  Loring  is ! " 

"I  'm  sure  I  'm  glad  to  be  with  her,  and  to 
visit  Madawanipee  again.  It  does  n't  seem  to 
change  much." 

58 


"  No,  but  we  want  to  bring  about  a  few 
changes.  Mr.  Robertson  and  I  were  just  talk- 
ing about  one  of  them.  Perhaps  out  of  your 
experience  in  Boston  you  can  help  us.  Let  me 
introduce  Mr.  Robertson,  if  you  have  n't  met 
him." 

And  so,  suddenly,  what  had  seemed  hardly 
more  real  than  a  vision  or  a  dream  of  the  past 
became  a  concrete  reality,  which  I  could  bow 
to,  and  even  speak  to  by  so  commonplace  a 
name  as  "  Miss  Appleton." 


59 


V. 

FEW  of  the  smaller  New  England  cities 
afford  material  for  greater  variety  of  expe- 
rience than  Madawanipee.  The  heart  of  the 
city  is  alive  with  brisk  commerce.  The  resi- 
dence portion  is  divided  so  distinctly  that  it  is 
literally  true  that  one  half  does  not  know  how 
the  other  half  lives,  —  indeed,  does  not  know 
the  English-French  that  the  other  half  speaks. 
This  latter  half  lives  on  the  plain  below  the 
mills.  Its  streets  and  door-yards  are  devoid  of 
green,  or  other  rest  for  the  eye.  Everything 
centres  about  the  mills,  and  has  the  unmistakable 
factory  air.  The  very  people  have  been  con- 
verted, to  a  certain  extent,  into  machines.  They 
take  even  their  pleasures  in  a  machine-like  way, 
as  if  all  were  on  the  prospectus,  and  must  be 
taken  in  due  season.  Perhaps  their  chief  charac- 
teristic is  that  common  to  most  factory  popu- 
lations, —  their  lives  lack  the  contemplative 
60 


element;  in  their  eyes  everything  is  not  only 
objective,  but  practically  devoid  of  relationships. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  city,  life  is  taken  in 
different  fashion,  —  at  least,  so  it  seems  to  the 
livers.  Every  house  has  its  lawn,  small  though 
it  may  be,  and  grassy,  shady  sidewalks  invite  to 
cool  saunterings.  Many  of  the  houses  are  old, 
and  here  and  there  one  lifts  its  massive  pillars 
to  the  eaves  and  reminds  of  the  days  when  the 
men  of  the  region  lived  to  get  the  meaning  out 
of  life,  and  not  merely  to  acquire.  The  electric 
cars  have  made  their  ravages,  and  the  railroad 
takes  and  leaves  travellers  by  its  score  of  trains 
a  day ;  but  these  serve  only  to  extend  a  little 
of  the  bustle  of  the  business  world  into  the  quiet 
streets  where  the  townsman  never  takes  it. 

The  city  lies  in  the  valley  of  a  river  large 
enough  to  give  a  sense  of  great  power,  and  yet 
not  too  large  for  picturesqueness.  Into  this 
river  flows  the  Madawa, —  deep,  silent,  wind- 
ing, fringed  to  the  water's  edge  with  low- 
hanging  trees,  and  narrow  enough  for  most 
satisfactory  canoeing.  It  was  locally  known  as 
"the  stream."  The  town  is  built  on  the  pen- 
61 


insula  formed  by  the  two  rivers.  It  lies  at  the 
centre  of  a  large  farming  district;  and  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  farmers,  roads  run  into 
it  from  all  directions,  like  spokes  of  a  wheel 
converging  at  the  hub.  These  are  connected 
by  cross-roads  at  various  intervals,  and  thus  by 
keeping  on  one  of  the  peripheries  of  the  wheel, 
as  it  were,  one  can  take  a  walk  of  respectable 
length  without  getting  far  from  town ;  or,  if  one 
wills,  one  can  plunge  straight  into  the  country 
by  a  few  minutes'  walk  from  the  post-office. 
My  favorite  walk,  both  for  summer  and  winter, 
was  to  follow  up  the  larger  river  as  far  as  time 
would  allow,  then  to  strike  across  country  to 
the  Madawa,  and  finally  to  follow  that  down  to 
town.  I  found  almost  as  much  enjoyment  in 
winter  as  in  summer.  The  flowers  and  birds 
were  gone ;  but  the  snow,  the  winter  winds, 
and  the  solitude  were  fruit  for  new  sensations. 
I  scandalized  many  of  the  prim  ones  among  the 
townspeople  by  spending  much  of  my  leisure 
in  summer  in  my  canoe,  and  in  winter  on  snow- 
shoes.  In  their  minds,  everything  but  walking 
and  riding  was  beyond  the  pale  of  dignified  pro- 
f» 


cedure  for  a  man  of  my  years ;  but  the  obliga- 
tion of  being  dignified  I  never  more  than  half 
recognized,  especially  when  one's  vocabulary  so 
abuses  the  word. 

Thus  it  happened  that,  out  of  the  mere  love 
of  sport,  I  was  out  one  bitter  morning  in  Jan- 
uary to  encounter  the  power  of  the  winds.  I 
was  surprised,  as  I  crossed  the  last  field  to  the 
Madawa,  to  see  before  me,  on  the  bank  of  the 
stream,  a  girlish  figure  braced  against  the  gusts. 
As  I  approached,  I  saw  that  it  was  Miss  Apple- 
ton.  The  crust  was  hard,  and  she  walked  as 
easily  as  upon  a  floor.  Now  and  then  she  stooped 
to  pick  up  a  bit  of  snow-crust  that  her  foot  had 
broken,  and  threw  it  at  some  tree  or  out  upon 
the  ice.  Sometimes  when  a  fierce  gust  was 
blowing,  she  threw  back  the  hood  which  pro- 
tected her  face,  shook  her  head,  and  let  the  wind 
blow  through  her  hair.  If  a  tree  stood  in  her 
path  on  the  steep  bank,  she  swung  herself  around 
it  as  easily  as  boys  swing  around  a  lamp-post. 
Her  step  was  so  light  and  springing  that  the 
crust  seemed  rather  a  guide  than  a  support. 
Every  motion,  whether  of  head  or  arm  or  foot, 
63 


was  but  the  escape  of  pent-up  vitality.  Of 
effort,  there  was  none.  She  revelled  in  the 
closeness  of  her  touch  with  Nature, — the  white 
fields,  the  silent  stream,  the  trees  she  brushed 
against,  the  wanton  wind. 

I  came  upon  her  just  as  she  had  thrown  back 
her  hood.  Before  I  had  time  to  say  good- 
morning,  she  had  replaced  it. 

"  Is  n't  this  glorious  ? "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Indeed  it  is.  Every  bit  of  the  morning  is 
every  bit  glorious." 

"  What  a  pity  that  people  don't  come  out  on 
such  a  day !  Everybody  stays  at  home  by  the 
fire  and  nurses  her — and  his  —  ability  to  take 
cold." 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  have  solved  a  prob- 
lem for  me  ?  I  have  wondered  all  my  life  why 
most  people  take  cold  so  easily.  Their  ability 
in  that  direction  is  almost  unlimited.  You  have 
hit  the  explanation, — they  nurse  it." 

"One  might  say  more  than  that:  they  not 

only  nurse,  but  nourish  it.     I  cannot  understand 

them.     It  is  so  joyous  to  be  out  in  a  cold  gale, 

when  the  wind  blows  through  one's  clothing 

64 


until  even  one's  flesh  is  cold  to  the  touch,  and 
at  the  same  time  one  feels  the  blood  coursing 
through  the  arteries  from  the  vigor  of  exercise. 
It 's  exhilarating,  like  keeping  a  wild  beast  at 
bay,  and  crying  out  to  it,  '  I  may  feel  your  teeth 
and  you  may  scratch,  but  you  can't  bite ;  your 
power  is  only  skin-deep.'  " 

As  she  finished  speaking,  we  reached  a  place 
where  the  bank  was  not  very  steep. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  she  cried,  gayly. 

She  took  a  few  quick  steps  and  a  light  spring, 
and  before  I  could  tell  what  she  was  about  to 
do,  she  was  sliding  down  over  the  hard  crust 
toward  the  ice.  I  expected  to  see  a  fall ;  but 
when  I  saw  her  figure  sway  and  bend  gently  to 
the  one  side  or  the  other,  accommodating  its 
balance  to  the  curves  of  the  surface,  I  saw  that 
I  was  watching  no  novice.  A  canoe  never  ran 
a  rapid  more  gracefully.  I  was  tempted  to  fol- 
low her;  but  it  would  have  been  unwise  to 
trust  my  brittle  bones  in  attempts  to  follow  so 
lively  a  leader.  She  was  back  at  my  side  almost 
as  soon  as  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to  follow. 

"  Why  did  't  you  come,  too  ? "  she  asked. 
65 


"  Purely  a  matter  of  principle,  I  assure  you," 
I  answered,  laughing;  "I  do  not  like  to  set  a 
bad  precedent.  I  know  that  some  of  your  elders 
—  it  makes  no  difference  who  —  couldn't  wisely 
follow  you  in  such  pleasures;  I  don't  wish  to 
set  them  the  bad  example." 

"  Which  is  equivalent  to  saying  that  I  set  the 
community  a  bad  example." 

As  she  spoke,  she  looked  up  into  my  face. 
Her  eyes  were  deep  and  tender,  and  her  lips 
were  at  the  same  time  firm  and  mobile.  The 
brown  hood  which  she  wore  was  a  frame,  in 
rich  harmony,  about  her  face.  She  seemed  to 
come  from  another  world. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Miss  Appleton,  you  have 
heard  of  angels  descending  and  ascending  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth.  Would  it  be  wise  for 
me  to  follow  one  of  them  ?  Even  if  I  could 
follow,  would  it  be  wise  for  me  to  set  the  pre- 
cedent for  my  friends  ?  Yet,  even  if  I  did,  could 
the  angels  be  blamed  for  the  bad  precedent?" 

"  Oh,  what  a  pretty  analogy !  I  am  glad  you 
did  n't  follow  me,  for  then  I  should  have  missed 
all  this." 

66 


The  wind  blew  afresh,  tipped  back  her  hood 
a  couple  of  inches,  and  let  astray  a  few  locks  of 
brown  hair  about  her  temples.  She  was  smil- 
ing in  pleasure  at  my  compliment.  I  forgot  all 
about  angels,  —  she  was  so  much  better  than 
angels.  A  stray  lock  or  two  of  hair  and  a  touch 
of  vanity  are  so  gloriously  human ! 

"  Since  you  are  so  fond  of  Nature,  I  suppose 
you  are  not  a  city  girl." 

"  Yes,  and  no.  I  was  born  in  a  large  city, 
and  I  have  lived  there  much  of  my  time ;  but 
I  have  lived  in  small  places  so  much  that  I  have 
been  able  to  get  out  into  the  country  like  this 
pretty  often.  Are  you,  too,  fond  of  wandering 
about  in  the  cold?" 

"It 's  my  great  delight  in  winter ;  in  summer 
I  do  the  next  best  thing,  wander  about  in  the 
heat." 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  go  about  as  men  can  ! 
It  makes  me  angry  to  see  them  wasting  their 
privileges.  Look  at  the  men  at  the  fashionable 
summer  resorts.  Think  of  the  powers  of  an 
able-bodied  man,  —  to  paddle,  row,  sail,  ride, 
tramp,  climb  mountains,  explore  the  wilderness, 
67 


everything  that  is  inspiring  in  the  way  of  sport, — 
and  then  see  him  spotless  in  stiff  linen  and  care- 
fully brushed  clothes,  with  button-hole  bouquet, 
sitting  lazily  in  a  carriage  while  another  man 
drives  him  around;  then  see  him  at  afternoon 
teas,  talking  small  talk  with  a  lot  of  girls  as  silly 
as  he. 

4  Oh,  it  was  pitiful, 
Near  a  whole  city  full  * 

of  that  sort  of  thing ! "  She  ended  with  a  little 
laugh,  as  if  it  would  not  do  to  seem  to  mean 
seriously  all  she  had  said.  She  seemed  half  in 
earnest,  half  in  jest. 

"  If  you  talk  that  way  much  more,  I  shall  be 
inclined  to  call  you  a  pessimist  where  society  is 
concerned." 

"Oh,  no!" 

What  a  world  of  individuality  there  is  in  mere 
accent!  It  was  thirty  years  and  more  since  I 
had  heard  those  two  common  monosyllables 
spoken  with  quite  that  accent.  It  would  be  a 
pleasure  to  hear  her  talk  even  without  the  deli- 
cious quality  of  her  tones,  and  even  though  she 
had  nothing  new  to  say;  her  accent  double- 
68 


freighted  her  words.  It  told  of  rare  readiness  of 
sympathy.  One  could  not  hear  her  and  doubt 
that  she  was  sincere,  or  even  wonder  whether 
her  mind  were  wandering.  Her  every  syllable 
had  individuality;  it  was  a  living  messenger 
direct  from  her  mind  and  heart  to  another's. 
One  was  tempted  to  rest,  as  it  were,  on  one's 
oars.  It  seemed  almost  needless  when  with 
her  to  try  to  be  entertaining,  or  even  to  be  clear ; 
one  felt  not  only  as  if  she  knew  what  one  wished 
to  say,  but  as  if  she  were  as  much  interested  as 
one's  self. 

"I  think  winter  is  long  enough  for  society, 
that  is  all,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  other  people 
can  see  what  Nature  has  to  show,  and  can  hear 
what  she  has  to  say  when  many  are  about,  but 
I  can't;  two  or  three  are  enough  to  make  the 
enjoyment  best,  and  they  must  be  just  the  right 
ones.  I  want  always  to  get  the  vision  so  clear 
that  it  will  stay  by  me.  I  want  it  so  that  I  can 
feel  it  all  over  again  when  I  see  it  on  canvas  or 
in  print.  When  we  only  half  see  Nature,  we 
lose,  not  only  while  we  are  looking,  but  also  for 
all  moments  of  possible  appreciation  at  second 
69 


hand,  either  in  memory  or  in  pictures.  In  the 
city,  during  some  of  the  winter,  I  live  over 
again,  in  the  art  galleries,  the  days  in  the  coun- 
try. One  can't  dream  over  a  beautiful  picture 
unless  one  has  made  Nature  one's  own ;  and  I 
can't  do  that  within  sight  of  many  people  and 
equipages,  or  within  sound  of  many  voices." 

"You  are  clearly  one  of  Nature's  children. 
I  saw  that  this  morning  before  you  saw  me." 

"Why,  what  was  I  doing?" 

"  Only  throwing  snow  at  the  trees  and  swing- 
ing yourself  around  them  in  a  very  natural  way, 
and  letting  the  wind  blow  through  your  hair  as 
if  you  and  it  were  old  playmates." 

"  The  wind  and  I  are  old  playmates,  on  water 
as  well  as  on  land. 

"Ah,  there  you  are ! "  she  sang  out  suddenly. 

We  were  approaching  the  gate  of  one  of  the 
outlying  houses  of  the  village.  Miss  Campbell 
was  coming  down  the  walk. 

"  Miss  Campbell  started  out  with  me,"  she 
explained;  "but  she  had  an  errand  here,  and 
went  in  to  wait  until  I  came  back." 

"Yes;  and  can  you  guess,  Mr.  Robertson, 
70 


what  the  errand  was?"  asked  Miss  Campbell, 
as  she  joined  us,  and  we  all  started  toward  the 
village. 

"  Indeed,  no  !  It  is  more  than  I  can  do  to 
guess  what  a  woman  has  in  mind  when  I  am 
looking  at  her.  What  shall  I  say  when  I  had  n't 
even  seen  her  for  a  week  ? " 

"I  thought  you  so  good  a  judge  of  char- 
acter that,  when  the  circumstances  were  given, 
you  could  predict  the  actions  of  people  you 
know." 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  any  one's  desert- 
ing Miss  Appleton,  —  or,"  I  added,  in  clumsy 
haste,  "  Miss  Appleton's  deserting  you." 

"I  shall  be  jealous  if  you  go  on  talking  that 
way.  You  wondered  that  any  one  could  desert 
Miss  Appleton,  and  that  so  kind  a  girl  as  she 
should  desert  me.  You  are  as  bad  as  your 
nephew.  You  like  to  pay  compliments  that 
cut  the  wrong  way." 

She  looked  up  in  a  playful  way  that  I  had 
become  accustomed  to,  rather  liked,  in  fact ;  but 
this  time  it  was  not  altogether  pleasing, — she 
had  come  too  near  the  truth. 

71 


"You  remind  me  sometimes,"  she  continued, 
"of  a  teacher  we  once  had  at  school.  His  name 
was  Benjamin  Fish, —  'Beneficial'  we  called 
him.  He  was  a  thoroughly  kind  man  at  heart, 
but  he  was  very  sensitive.  He  felt  personally 
slighted  when  we  neglected  our  work.  I  sup- 
pose that  is  what  made  him  so  merciless,  under 
the  guise  of  civility,  to  the  scholars  who  were 
careless.  You  must  n't  take  too  much  of  this 
as  like  yourself.  One  of  the  boys  put  together, 
in  a  perfunctory  way,  a  number  of  chemical 
substances  ready  for  an  experiment.  He  did  n't 
,  want  to  perform  the  experiment  just  then,  so  he 
put  the  retort  aside,  and  then  went  to  'Beneficial ' 
and  asked  him  what  to  mark  it. 

'"How  much  hydrochloric  acid  did  you  say 
you  put  in  ? '  asked  Mr.  Fish. 

"'About  a  teaspoonful.' 

"With  even  more  dignity  than  usual,  and  in 
even  deeper  tones,  Mr.  Fish  answered,  without 
comment,  'Mark  it  "slops."'  The  boy  never 
forgave  him.  Another  boy  once  asked  him  how 
long  he  should  hold  a  certain  crazy  concoction 
over  the  Bunsen  burner  to  boil,  and  was  told, 
72 


very  soberly,  to  'boil  it  a  week.'  You  aren't 
quite  so  bad  as  that;  but  there  are  often  two 
sides  to  your  speeches,  as  when  you  talk  of  Miss 
Appleton's  deserting  me." 

"  But  you  see  it  was  n't  a  question  of  deser- 
tion at  all,"  said  Miss  Appleton ;  "  it  was  merely 
divided  duty,  and  we  both  fought  our  own 
battles." 

"And  our  weapons  differed,"  added  Miss 
Campbell.  "We  started  out  to  fight  the  cold 
together.  Ruth  spurred  me  on  by  graphic  de- 
scriptions of  the  fun  of  a  fight  with  a  cold,  blowy 
morning  on  the  river-bank.  When  we  got  here, 
I  discovered  that  I  had  n't  any  weapons  to  fight 
with,  and  so  I  had  to  go  into  that  house  after 
some.  Ruth  must  have  had  hers  hidden  some- 
where, or  else  she  has  some  strange  way  of 
fighting." 

"  But  you  did  n't  come  back  with  your  weap- 
ons, after  all,"  laughed  Miss  Appleton. 

"No.  You  see  I  found  my  chief  weapon 
hardly  portable,  and  it  might  burn  my  fingers. 
Besides,  it  smoked.  I  don't  like  things  that 
smoke." 

73 


"Then  you  really  deserted,  I  am  afraid,"  I 
suggested. 

"Oh,  no!  I  merely  stayed  behind  the 
breastworks,  and  used  heavy  artillery.  Ruth 
was  the  light-armed  infantry.  I  think  she  is 
rather  grateful,  too,  that  you  came  up  as  a 
reinforcement." 

"  Miss  Appleton  did  not  seem  at  all  in  need 
of  reinforcement  when  I  came  up.  I  saw  her 
before  she  saw  me,  and  I  had  no  notion  that  she 
had  an  enemy  within  range.  She  was  contem- 
plating the  field  with  much  apparent  enjoyment 
and  ease." 

"Well,"  Miss  Campbell  responded,  with  a 
mock  injured  look,  "the  enemy  wasn't  after 
her,  they  were  after  me;  she  could  afford  to 
wander  about  light-armed.  It  needed  a  whole 
battery  to  protect  me,  for  I  was  the  real  point 
of  attack.  Somehow  I  always  need  a  lot  of 
protection  from  this  particular  enemy.  The 
weapons  I  like  best  are  a  good  high-backed 
sleigh,  plenty  of  robes,  a  very,  very  speedy 
horse,  a  young  man  who  knows  just  how  to  hold 
the  reins, — and  that 's  all  he  will  need  to  do  to 
74 


them  if  he  knows  how  to  drive, — and  a  piping 
hot  supper  at  the  other  end  of  the  road.  I  don't 
like  to  walk.  Feet  were  made  not  to  travel  on, 
but  to  —  to — just  to  vibrate  on.  Isn't  that 
what  a  woman's  for, —  to  vibrate?  I  mean 
is  n't  that  what  people  expect  of  her  ? "  She 
paused  a  moment.  "  She  's  to  scintillate,  and 
please  everybody  by  being  everything  in  general 
and  nothing  in  particular,  and  never  to  take  any 
initiative,  but  only  to  vibrate  when  her  chords, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  are  touched." 

"  I  suppose  if  that 's  all  woman  does,  man 
does  all  the  rest,"  suggested  Miss  Appleton. 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  's  the  one  that  makes  the 
'  wheels  go  round.'  We  're  the  ones  who  stand 
by  and  cry  to  'shee  wheels  go  wound.'  If  we 
can't  see  them,  even  at  the  risk  of  spoiling  them, 
we  cry.  Did  you  ever  think  of  it  before  ?  We 
make  man's  life  miserable  unless  we  are  happy. 
To  keep  us  happy,  he  makes  the  wheels  go 
round ;  but  then  we  meddle,  and  spoil  it  all. 
Is  it  strange  that  the  world  is  a  strange  place  ?  " 

"  After  all,  is  n't  it  the  men  themselves  who 
see  the  wheels  go  round  ?  "  I  asked. 
75 


"  Yes,  perhaps  it  is,  —  at  least,  some  kinds 
of  wheels.  They  won't  let  us  see  them  go 
round.  We  have  to  content  ourselves  with 
hearing  about  them." 

"  In  other  words,  you  only  hear  the  watch 
tick." 

"  Perhaps  that 's  why  women  are  so  much 
afraid  of  getting  old,"  said  Miss  Appleton. 
"  They  know  only  the  monotonous  tick,  and 
don't  see  any  of  the  motion  that  makes  it.  They 
get  to  think  of  time  as  a  thing  which  takes 
away,  but  never  gives." 

"  My  small  brother,"  suggested  Miss  Camp- 
bell, doubtfully,  "  would  correct  you  there,  and 
say  that,  though  Time  never  gives,  he  'gives 
away,'  —  that  he  's  a  horrible  fellow  for  « giv- 
ing away.'  He  would  just  delight  to  get  a 
chance  to  say  so  to  some  of  the  young  old  maids 
in  town." 

"  What  is  an  old  maid  ?  "  I  asked. 

"An  old  maid,"  answered  Miss  Campbell, 
readily,  "  is  one  who  is  old  enough  to  know 
better." 

"Is  that  why  the  limit  of  age  varies  so  much?" 
76 


"  Certainly.  Some  don't  know  enough  to 
marry  until  they  are  thirty,  and  yet  we  don't 
call  them  old  maids ;  others  are  old  maids  at 
twenty-five.  They  know  better  ;  but  they  are 
too  stupid,  or  too  lazy,  or  something,  to  catch 
« the  good  fish  in  the  sea.'  " 

"  You  forget  that  they  need  bait,"  suggested 
Miss  Appleton,  "just  as  you  forgot  your  own 
weapons  this  morning." 

"  Oh,  no  !  Why,  flies  are  better  than  live 
bait,  I  'm  told ;  and  a  woman  who  can't  make 
her  own  flies,  and  hooks,  too,  for  that  matter, 
does  n't  deserve  to  catch  fish.  I  '11  risk  a  bright 
woman,  even  if  she  has  to  make  every  bit  of 
her  own  tackle." 

"  If  that 's  the  feminine  point  of  view,"  said 
I,  "  it 's  time  the  men  were  suspicious  as  well 
as  suspected.  The  bulk  of  our  literature,  and 
especially  of  our  dramatic  literature,  puts  suspi- 
cion upon  the  men.  It  becomes  interesting  to 
hear  that  women  not  only  angle  for  men,  but 
angle  for  them  with  flies." 

"  Why,  deception  is  the  great  civilizer,"  de- 
clared Miss  Campbell.  "  To  get  rid  of  our 
77 


delusions  is  all  we  live  for.  So  if  we  did  n't 
have  any  delusions,  life  would  n't  be  worth 
living." 

"  What 's  the  particular  delusion  you  live  to 
get  rid  of? "  asked  Miss  Appleton. 

"  That  I  'm  not  so  good  as  I  ought  to  be." 

"I  suppose,  then,"  said  I,  "that  it's  not 
allowable  to  ask  you  whether  life  is  worth 
living." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  laughed,  "  and  I  ought  to  be 
a  good  authority, —  I  find  it  so.  I  doubt  whether 
I  ever  accomplish  the  end,  you  know.  It 's 
rather  hard  to  persuade  one's  self  that  one  is  as 
good  as  one  ought  to  be,  —  as  hard  as  it  is  to 
persuade  one's  self  that  one  is  as  warm  as  one 
ought  to  be  on  a  day  like  this.  But  I  'm  going 
to  be  as  warm  as  I  ought  to  be  in  a  few  moments. 
Won't  you  both  come  in  and  have  some  hot 
chocolate  ? " 

We  reached  her  home  as  she  spoke.  Miss 
Appleton  accepted  the  invitation,  but  I  kept  on 
my  way.  The  thought  that  I  had  learned  some 
of  Miss  Appleton's  favorite  walks  was  cheer 
enough  for  me. 

78 


VI. 

HOW  dear  a  town  becomes  if  one  is  always 
on  the  alert  to  catch  sight  of  a  particular 
face  !  Heretofore  I  had  felt  like  a  sojourner  in 
Madawanipee ;  it  seemed  suddenly  to  have  be- 
come a  part  of  my  life.  Every  morning  when 
I  left  the  house,  I  scanned  the  street  to  see 
whether  Miss  Appleton  chanced  to  be  in  sight. 
I  never  passed  a  cross-street  without  looking  up 
and  down  for  her.  It  would  be  so  easy  to  miss 
seeing  her  sometime  that  I  took  every  precau- 
tion. I  chanced  upon  her  just  often  enough  to 
keep  the  hope  from  dying. 

One  morning,  as  I  came  down  the  steps,  she 
was  a  little  way  ahead  of  me.  I  soon  overtook 
her. 

"  Is  it  legitimate  to  be  so  late  in  starting  out 
for  the  day  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  smile.  "  I  think 
I  heard  a  door  close  just  before  you  appeared." 

"  Are  n't  all   things    legitimate  when  their 
complements  are  not  wanting?" 
79 


"  What  virtue  can  make  up  for  a  late  begin- 
ning of  the  day  ?  " 

"  A  late  ending,  to  be  sure." 

"  But  one  must  know  why  the  day  ended  late 
before  one  can  justify  such  an  excuse.  You  see 
I  am  not  lenient  to  people  whose  ways  are  a 
little  off  color." 

"I  see.  I  pity  one  whose  sins  should  fall 
under  your  eye.  Would  you  condone  my  late 
appearance  if  I  should  prove  that  I  was  engaged 
in  a  laudable  enterprise  last  night?" 

"What  a  hard  judge  you  make  me  out  to 
be !  I  must  search  with  double  diligence  for 
the  beam  in  my  own  eye.  I  hope  you  will  tell 
me  about  your  laudable  enterprise,  so  as  to  put 
me  to  shame ;  for  I  was  n't  a  bit  laudable  last 
night.  I  treated  an  estimable  young  man  very 
unkindly,  though  I  must  say  that  it  was  done 
unconsciously." 

"  There,  now  I  have  my  retaliation ;  for  my 
laudable  enterprise  was  doing  just  what  you 
foiled  to  do.  I  treated  an  estimable  young  man 
with  the  utmost  kindness.  I  have  a  nephew  in 
town.  He  was  in  a  proper  mood  for  listening 
80 


to   a   good   lecture   last   night.      I   gave    it   to 
him." 

"Do  you  call  that  kindness?" 

"  Did  n't  you  ever  lecture  a  young  man  and 
call  it  kindness?" 

"Perhaps, —  in  fun." 

"  Oh,  no,  in  earnest !  Of  course  you  have. 
Something  has  got  hold  of  this  nephew  of  mine. 
I  could  imagine  that  he  had  fallen  in  love,  or 
was  getting  within  sight  of  the  precipice  over 
which  to  fall,  if  I  did  n't  think  the  girl  who  put 
him  in  danger  was  not  here.  He  seemed  to  be 
bewitched  a  few  weeks  ago ;  but  he  told  me 
afterward  that  the  girl,  a  stranger  in  town,  had 
gone  away.  I  know  that  he  was  not  so  badly 
smitten  that  she  could  disturb  his  equanimity 
after  she  had  gone.  He  talked  of  her  for  days, 
though  he  had  never  met  her.  He  doesn't 
work,  nor  play,  nor  do  anything  else.  His 
work  is  n't  pressing  him  hard,  and  so  he  neglects 
it.  He  chiefly  dreams.  Last  night  he  dropped 
in  to  see  me  about  eleven,  dreamier  than  ever, 
and  I  tried  to  wake  him  up ;  but  I  fear  he  went 
off  to  dreaming  again  before  he  got  home." 
ll 


"Is  dreaming  hard  to  cure?" 

"Easier  than  the  leprosy,  only.  There  is 
one  cure,  or  rather  one  physician,  for  every 
dreamer;  but  often  that  is  the  very  one  impos- 
sible to  employ." 

"I  hope  you  succeeded  in  cheering  your 
nephew  up.  That  is,"  she  added  hastily,  "I 
hope  you  are  the  physician  for  him." 

"  Oh,  I  did  n't  say  that  he  was  blue.  I  sus- 
pect, on  the  other  hand,  that  I  but  confirmed 
him  in  his  bad  habit." 

I  noticed  that  she  was  a  trifle  embarrassed 
when  I  corrected  her  and  said  that  he  was  not 
blue;  and  I  thought  it  strange  that  she  should 
care  so  much  about  so  slight  a  matter. 

"I  must  turn  down  this  street,"  she  said,  as 
we  reached  the  next  corner.  "I  hope — but 
won't  you  come,  too  ?  Perhaps  you  have  n't 
been  there.  I  'm  going  to  the  jail  to  see  a  man 
convicted  of  stealing  from  a  cousin  of  mine.  He 
seems  to  like  to  see  me,  and  I  have  been  there 
a  good  many  times.  It  is  very  interesting  ;  so 
many  curious  types !  And  being  there  for  the 
purpose  of  seeing  a  special  one,  I  can  look  about 


and  see  the  others  when  they  are  not  on  exhibi- 
tion, as  it  were,  to  curiosity-seekers.  They  are 
very  different,  then.  Many  seem  to  resent  being 
shown  as  curiosities,  and  they  put  on  hard,  defi- 
ant faces ;  whereas  alone  they  show  something 
of  natural  feeling.  Will  you  come?" 

"Thank  you,  gladly." 

We  were  ushered  into  a  long  corridor  from 
which  the  cells  opened.  The  special  subject  of 
Miss  Appleton's  visit  was  near  the  door.  He 
was  a  rough,  sensual-looking  fellow,  of  thirty  or 
thereabouts,  with  an  eye  that  seemed  to  have 
degenerated  into  viciousness.  He  chanced  to 
see  me  first.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  he  could 
not  be  touched  by  anything  noble  or  beautiful. 
Yet  when  he  saw  Miss  Appleton  behind  me, 
his  scowl  vanished,  his  eyes  sparkled  with  de- 
light and  gratitude  like  a  child's.  Even  the 
sensuality  of  the  face  seemed  to  pale,  and  some- 
thing of  the  buried  nobler  self  shone  through 
the  marks  of  vice.  He  watched  her  eagerly, 
passionately;  but  the  passion  had  none  of  the 
ruffian  in  it.  It  was  the  passion  of  a  child  for 
some  adored  man  or  woman. 


"Good-morning,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  as 
she  stopped  before  the  door  of  his  cell.  "  How 
is  Mr.  Murphy  this  morning?" 

"  Oh,  I  'm  fine !  as  fine  as  any  one  can  be 
without  a  free  look  at  the  sky  and  the  sunshine ; 
and  I  hope  you  are  feeling  as  fine  as  an  angel 
yourself,  Miss  Appleton." 

"  I  'm  always  well,  you  know.  I  'm  as  well 
as  any  one  can  be  who  isn't  an  angel,"  she 
added,  with  a  gay  smile.  "  You  see  we  all  have 
some  limitations.  You  might  feel  better  if  you 
were  free  to  go  about,  and  I  might  feel  better 
if  I  were  an  angel.  I  'm  not  ready  to  be  an 
angel  yet,  for  I  want  to  come  here  and  see  you 
a  few  times  more  first;  and  this  time  I  want  to 
introduce  you  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Robertson." 

I  ought  to  have  been  prepared  for  this ;  but 
singularly  I  had  been  so  busy  with  thoughts 
about  my  companion  that  I  had  not  thought  of 
my  own  duties.  I  could  not  well  tell  the  man 
that  I  was  pleased  to  see  him,  for  when  at  the 
jail  it  would  be  kinder  to  wish  him  elsewhere. 
I  could  not  congratulate  him  on  the  beauty  or 
coziness  of  his  surroundings ;  I  could  not  even 
84 


congratulate  him  on  having  so  faithful  a  friend 
as  Miss  Appleton,  for  that  would  but  emphasize 
his  need  of  such  a  friend.  What  a  pity  it  is 
that  our  wits  get  slow  with  our  limbs !  By  rare 
luck,  just  as  I  reached  Miss  Appleton's  side, 
ready  for  the  introduction,  I  found  a  ground  of 
common  interest  with  him. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  a  man,"  I  said,  "who  has 
managed  to  keep  Miss  Appleton  for  his  friend 
as  long  as  she  tells  me  you  have.  I  know  more 
than  one  person  who  would  count  it  an  honor 
to  possess  her  friendship  at  all." 

He  smiled  faintly  at  first,  as  if  bound  by  com- 
mon civility  to  smile  at  anything  I  might  say  in 
the  way  of  greeting ;  and  then  his  heavy  face 
lighted  up  slowly  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"I  've  heard  some  of  the  ladies  who  come 
here  say  God  is  everybody's  friend,  and  won't 
let  us  drive  His  friendship  away.  It  ain't  be- 
cause we  deserve  it ;  perhaps  it 's  because  we 
don't  deserve  it.  That 's  the  way  "  —  here  he 
turned  to  me  —  "  Miss  Appleton  's  made.  It 
ain't  nothin'  to  my  credit  that  she  's  my  friend  ; 
it 's  only  her  kindness." 
85 


"I  see  he  doesn't  understand,"  she  said. 
"  He  does  n't  see  how  I  get  any  pleasure  out  of 
coming  here.  He  does  n't  know  my  hobby,  or 
mania,  of  wanting  other  people  to  read  the  books 
I  like.  He  does  n't  tell  you  about  the  books  I 
bring  him,  and  make  him  read.  I  begin  to  think 
that  if  I  'm  not  careful  I  shall  make  him  hate 
the  very  sight  of  books.  Yet  he  always  seems 
to  read  what  I  bring,  and  he  does  it  as  patiently 
as  any  one  could  ask,  —  or,  at  least,  he  never 
shows  anything  but  patience  when  I  'm  about." 

I  saw  in  his  face  the  light  which  indicates  that 
one  is  laboring  to  catch  and  bring  out  some 
elusive  thought.  I  turned  away  for  a  moment, 
as  if  interested  in  something  at  the  end  of  the 
corridor,  and  waited  rather  curiously.  It  was 
not  long  in  coming.  He  spoke  slowly,  looking 
down. 

"  I  never  was  given  to  showing  impatience 
because  my  mother  brought  me  anything  extra 
good  for  a  present ;  and  since  I  was  a  child  no 
one  ever  did  anything  for  me  until  now." 

He  seemed  doubtful  of  the  issue  of  this  ex- 
periment. Several  moments  passed  before  he 
86 


looked  up.  He  found  Miss  Appleton  looking 
into  his  face  with  those  wonderful  eyes  of  hers, 
and  that  wonderful,  sympathetic  smile,  —  seem- 
ing to  know  all  that  was  noble  in  him,  rejoicing 
in  it,  and  believing  that  it  would  prevail.  He 
quickly  brightened,  like  a  child  who  finds  praise 
where  it  feared  blame. 

I  left  them  talking,  and  passed  on  through 
the  corridor  to  see  whether  the  other  cells 
were  occupied.  I  noticed  a  hard-looking  man, 
perhaps  beyond  middle  age,  leaning  with  his 
face  pressed  closely  against  the  bars  and  gazing 
toward  Miss  Appleton.  I  returned  down  the 
corridor ;  but  on  passing  up  a  second  time,  I 
found  that  the  man  had  not  moved  even  his 
eyes.  At  the  upper  end  I  paused  to  get  a  view 
of  him  without  his  seeing  me.  He  seemed 
straining  his  ears  as  well  as  his  eyes.  When  I 
reached  his  cell  on  the  return,  I  stopped. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  the  man  with 
whom  my  friend  is  talking  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,  very  well." 

"  Is  there  anything  particular  about  him,  or 
is  he  like  "  —  I  was  going  to  say  "  the  rest  of 
87 


you,"  but  checked  myself  in  time  to  turn  it  into 
—  "  other  people  ?  " 

"  He  ain't  like  other  people,  or  he  would  n't 
be  here,"  was  the  simple  reply.  "  But  he  ain't 
like  the  other  men  here,  —  leastwise  he  ain't 
now  ;  he  was  as  bad  as  any  of  'em  when  he  first 
come." 

"  What  has  happened  to  him  ? " 

"  I  don'  know  what  you  call  it,  but  it 's  that 
young  lady  what  done  it." 

"  How  ? " 

"  Oh,  jus'  comin'  to  see  him,  an'  talkin*  to 
him  like  he  was  a  man  an'  not  another  sort  o* 
critter.  An'  then  she  brings  him  books,  —  not 
the  kin'  they  call  Sunday-school  books,  but  books 
about  real  people  an'  such  like.  It  seems  to  kind 
o'  wake  up  his  insides,  —  makes  him  think,  yer 
know,  an'  want  to  do  better  when  he  gets  out. 
She  don't  go  preachin'  to  him,  but  jus'  talks  with 
him  the  same  as  she  would  any  feller." 

"  You  think  he  likes  to  have  her  come  and 
bring  books,  then,  do  you  ? " 

"  Likes  it !     It  takes  the  sap  all  out  o'  him 
if  she  don't  come  jus'  when  he  expec's  her. 
88 


"Say,"  he  continued  confidentially,  after  a 
moment's  pause,  "  s'pose  she  'd  let  me  have  one 
o'  them  books  she  let  him  have  last  week  ?  He 
tol'  me  about  it.  He  said  it  kind  o'  opened  his 
eyes.  If  it 's  goin'  to  open  a  feller's  eyes  to  the 
sort  o'  thing  she  sees,  I  'd  kind  o'  like  to  have 
mine  opened  for  a  while,  to  see  what  it 's  like." 

I  gladly  carried  the  message  ;  and  even  more 
gladly,  if  possible,  she  answered  it  in  person.  It 
was  hard  for  the  man  to  repress  sufficiently  his 
delight  at  having  her  come  to  speak  to  him.  I 
lingered  a  moment  after  she  had  returned  to  her 
special  ward,  and  could  see  the  new  light  in  his 
face,  the  new  energy  even  in  his  posture. 

"I  've  watched  her  every  time  she  's  been 
here  when  we  wasn't  workin'  in  the  work- 
shop," he  exclaimed  enthusiastically;  "an'  I 
count  up,  just  as  the  other  feller  does,  an'  guess 
when  she  's  goin'  to  come  again.  I  never  seen 
a  lady  like  her  before.  Lots  o'  women  come 
here,  an'  a  good  many  of  'em  talk  to  us ;  but 
they  ain't  like  her.  She  don't  talk  to  that  feller 
about  his  sins,  an'  ask  him  to  be  better.  She 
jus'  talks  to  him  as  she  'd  talk  to  any  one  con- 
89 


fined  in  the  house,  an'  tries  to  amuse  him  an* 
cheer  him  up.  She  don't  have  to  talk  about  his 
sins,  or  ask  him  to  be  better.  Her  beautiful  face 
an*  her  smile  an'  her  voice,  quiet  but  strong,  like 
the  brooks  I  used  to  know  when  I  was  a  kid, 
do  all  that.  She  seems  to  believe  in  a  feller,  an* 
make  him  want  to  show  her  he  can  do  what  she 
wants  him  to." 

I  walked  home  with  Miss  Appleton. 

"I  don't  suppose  it  would  do  any  good  for 
me  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  your  work  there 
this  morning,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  it  would  do  good,  whatever  you  say. 
You  can  help  me  to  find  the  right  thing  to  do." 

"  No,  I  can't  do  that.  Even  if  it  was  ever 
possible,  I  am  too  late  now." 

She  looked  up  with  an  expression  half  of  fear, 
half  of  pleasure,  questioningly,  until  I  continued : 

"We  do  not  search  for  things  which  were 
never  lost,  —  certainly  not  for  things  which  we 
have  always  had." 

"  If  you  are  going  to  talk  that  way,  you  can't 
help  me." 

90 


"So  I  feared.  You  are  beyond  help.  Even 
praise  will  not  help  you.  You  are  too  inde- 
pendent, too  courageous,  to  find  help  in  anything 
of  the  kind." 

"  Please  do  not  talk  like  that.  Do  you  forget 
that  I  am  a  woman  ?  At  least,"  she  continued, 
slowly,  as  if  a  new  thought  had  interrupted  her, 
"  I  hope  I  am  not  so  hard,  so  self-confident,  so 
emancipated,"  —  she  smiled  a  little  here, — 
"  as  to  be  beyond  the  help  of  sympathy." 

"  Forgive  me  !  The  trouble  is  that  my  sym- 
pathy is  so  great.  I  saw  so  much  of  the  good 
you  have  done  those  two  men  that  I  did  not 
stop  to  think  that  you  are  only  a  woman  still." 

Her  quick  look  of  gratitude  forgave  me. 


VII. 

AS  the  winter  passed  on  into  spring,  my 
heart  seemed  to  grow  young  again, — 
young  again,  did  I  say  ?  No,  not  that !  I  can- 
not admit  that  it  ever  grew  old.  But  there  is 
a  change  in  the  heart.  We  need  not  abandon 
hope  of  pleasure,  —  unless,  indeed,  our  lives 
have  been  so  squandered  that  we  know  chiefly 
the  pleasures  of  the  body,  —  we  need  not  aban- 
don the  hope  of  rendering  service  ;  but  one  thing 
is  lost  forever,  —  the  hope  of  winning  some 
maiden's  love.  In  that  respect  our  lives  have 
been  lived,  and  we  are  as  dead.  How  selfish 
we  are !  Because  the  hope  of  winning  love  has 
gone  from  us,  we  forget  the  power  of  loving; 
we  close  our  hearts  against  the  giving  of  that 
which,  given,  leaves  us  richer.  Under  the  touch 
of  this  young  girl's  life  I  found  my  heart  open- 
ing. I  could  not  hope  to  touch  her  heart  even 
so  lightly  as  to  quicken  its  beating ;  yet  that  was 
92 


no  reason  why  my  own  should  not  be  quickened, 
strengthened,  opened  to  the  inspiration  of  noble 
womanhood. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  old  love  with  which  I 
had  lived  alone  so  many  years  breaking  from  its 
bounds  under  her  magic  touch.  My  Agnes 
seemed  come  back  to  earth  again,  ignorant  of 
me.  I  could  no  more  help  worshipping  her 
now  than  when  my  blood  was  youthful.  Years 
ago,  after  she  had  been  lost  to  me,  I  had  not  the 
right  even  to  try  to  serve  her ;  now,  in  this  new 
love,  the  right  of  service,  at  least,  could  not  be 
denied  me. 

Doubtless  I  was  rather  childish  about  it,  but 
I  watched  eagerly  for  any  little  want  of  hers 
which  I  could  supply.  It  chanced  that  I  over- 
heard her  say  that  she  loved  the  little  plant  called 
the  gold-thread,  and  longed  for  a  glimpse  of  it. 
I  had  longed  all  spring  for  a  note  of  the  white- 
throated  sparrow ;  and  I  knew  that  if  she 
longed  for  the  flower  as  I  longed  for  the  bird, 
it  would  be  worth  my  while  to  make  an  excur- 
sion in  quest  of  one.  I  had  found  the  plant 
growing,  a  year  or  two  before,  in  the  woods 
93 


near  White  Pond  ;  and  thither  I  betook  myself 
at  the  first  opportunity.  The  day  was  one  of 
the  perfect  ones  of  spring,  when  Nature  is  full 
of  her  annual  task,  but  working  so  peacefully 
that  one  hardly  thinks  of  change.  It  was  a 
delight  merely  to  live.  I  was  doubly  repaid 
for  my  pains ;  for  when  I  emerged  upon  the 
Prescott  Road,  I  carried  a  large  bunch  of  the 
plants. 

Along  the  western  side  of  the  r®ad  the  woods 
had  been  cut  for  fuel,  and  each  year's  cutting 
could  be  traced  by  the  varying  heights  of  the 
new  growth.  The  woods  were  sprinkled  with 
pine,  and  the  red  needles  strewed  the  sloping 
ground.  The  first  touch  of  spring  had  flushed 
the  tops  of  the  bare  trees.  As  one  looked  from 
the  road,  a  terraced  bank  of  crimson-pink  —  the 
ground,  the  tops  of  bushes,  of  saplings,  and  of 
trees  —  rose  from  one's  feet  to  the  sky.  The 
sun  had  set ;  and  the  east  was  illumined  with 
the  reflection,  more  peaceful  even  than  the  ori- 
ginal, of  the  western  pinks.  It  seemed  to  typify 
the  love  of  my  old  age,  the  reflection  of  the  love 
of  my  youth.  Below  the  road  the  river  had 
94 


spread  out  to  a  pond,  and  from  overhead  it  had 
caught  the  sunset  colors,  reflecting  them  once 
more.  I  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  Nature's 
color  displays,  —  the  red  of  the  ground  and  the 
trees,  the  deep  blue  of  the  upper  sky,  the  pink 
of  the  east,  the  doubly  delicate  pink  of  the  crys- 
tal lake.  The  black  shadows  under  the  western 
shore  gave  the  needed  touch  of  intensity. 

Everything  was  in  perfect  peace,  —  so  beau- 
tiful as  to  be  almost  sad.  When  I  reached  the 
village,  it  was  so  dark  that  people  could  not  be 
recognized  except  face  to  face.  I  intended  to 
carry  the  flowers  to  Ruth  in  the  evening ;  but 
in  the  hope  that  I  might  see  some  trace  of  her 
I  slackened  my  pace  before  I  reached  the  house 
where  she  was  staying.  From  the  yard  I  heard 
children's  voices,  and  then  a  voice  from  the 
piazza. 

"  No-o,"  came  the  answer,  in  a  piping  little 
voice,  out  of  the  darkness,  "  I  want  to  hear 
Wuth  thing  thum  more." 

Another  voice,  boyish,  but  as  eager,  took  up 
the  plea  :   "  Miss  Appleton  is  going  to  sing  us 
the  birdie  song,  and  then  we  '11  come  in." 
95 


*'  Yes,  Annie,  we  shall  be  in  very  soon.  I 
promised  them  one  little  song.  It 's  not  at  all 
cold  out  here." 

How  I  loved  the  tones  of  that  voice ! 

I  saw  approaching  slowly  up  the  garden  path 
a  tall  figure  in  a  light  gown,  and  two  small  fig- 
ures, —  one  pudgy,  one  slender.  When  I  saw 
that  they  would  not  come  very  near  me,  I 
stopped  to  hear  the  song. 

It  was  Soederberg's  "  A  Birdling  sang  on  the 
Linden-Bough."  At  the  words,  "In  spring 
he  '11  surely  be  returning,"  the  voice,  though  so 
quiet  that  it  scarcely  could  have  been  heard  from 
the  middle  of  the  street,  was  rich  as  with  cer- 
tainty and  joy  in  the  words. 

My  peace  was  gone.  It  was  very  foolish, 
but  a  dart  of  jealousy  went  through  me.  I  knew 
that  she  could  never  love  me,  could  never  think 
of  me  with  anything  more  than  kindness,  or 
perhaps  admiration,  —  should  I  say  veneration  ? 
Yet  she  was  my  all !  I  tried  not  to  be  selfish  ; 
and  I  told  myself  that  if  I  knew  the  man  who 
was  to  come,  and  knew  him  worthy  of  her,  I 
should  rejoice  with  her.  But  if  he  should  be  a 
96 


mere  stripling,  unformed  and  untried  !  Perhaps 
I  could  even  stand  the  stripling,  and  have  faith 
in  him  because  she  had  faith  in  him ;  but  if  he 
were  tried  and  found  wanting  in  the  noblest 
manhood  !  That  would  go  hard  with  me.  If 
she  had  been  blinded ;  if  her  eyes  had  never  been 
opened  to  know  a  man  when  she  saw  one ;  if 
she  had  given  her  love  to  a  man  whose  life  had 
not  been  lived  worthily  of  her,  —  my  last  dream 
of  happiness  was  gone. 

I  wandered  slowly  home.  Harry  was  at  my 
desk,  reading  the  morning's  city  papers.  On 
the  table  stood  a  glass  of  water  with  a  bunch  of 
gold-thread.  I  stopped  on  the  threshold,  and 
we  looked  at  each  other. 

"  I  wonder,"  laughed  Harry,  "  whether  you 
can  tell  me  where  I  can  find  some  growing 
gold-thread  ? " 

"  You  don't  seem  to  need  the  information. 
Whose  are  these  ?  " 

"I  picked  them." 

"  I  did  n't  know  that  you  ever  brought  home 
flowers." 

"  I  don't  commonly.  I  picked  these  for 
some  one  else." 

97 


My  curiosity  was  excited.  Ruth  was  the 
first  person  whom  I  had  ever  heard  express  a 
fondness  for  the  flower ;  and  it  seemed  strange 
that  Harry  should  have  brought  them  at  just 
this  time  unless  they  were  for  her.  I  remem- 
bered, too,  that  he  had  been  present  when  she 
had  spoken  of  them. 

"  Who  is  the  favored  person  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Ruth  Appleton." 

I  am  afraid  that  I  winced.  Just  why,  it 
would  be  hard  to  say.  Indeed,  I  have  pre- 
ferred not  to  ask  myself  just  why.  I  suppose 
my  fancy  jumped  clear  of  all  reasonableness,  and 
ran  its  own  wanton  way.  Childish  I  suppose 
it  was  for  me  to  be  jealous  when  I  heard  her 
sing ;  but  after  once  giving  way,  it  was  not 
strange  that  I  looked  with  great  suspicion  upon 
Harry.  I  knew  him  unworthy  of  her,  and  yet 
I  knew  him  better  worthy  of  her  than  many  a 
more  promising  youth. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  safe  to  guess,"  said  Harry, 
"that  your  flowers  are  for  Ruth,  too." 

"  They  are  intended  for  Miss  Appleton. " 
I  spoke  in  a  corrective  tone. 
98 


"That's  what  I  said." 

"  I  understood  you  to  say  '  Ruth.'  " 

"  Yes  ;  Ruth  Appleton." 

"  I  call  her  Miss  Appleton  when  I  speak  of 
her." 

There  was  little  use  in  trying  to  correct 
Harry,  and  make  him  observe  the  delicacies  of 
either  speech  or  demeanor.  He  was  a  boy  still, 
and  a  boy  he  will  always  remain.  I  was  free 
to  correct  and  scold  him  as  often  as  I  saw  occa- 
sion, but  my  progress  was  not  always  encourag- 
ing. His  mother  had  been  my  only  sister ;  and 
at  her  death,  Harry  became  my  charge.  Our 
relations  were  almost  as  close  as  those  of  father 
and  son ;  but  I  had  striven  rather  to  give  them 
the  freedom  and  companionship,  so  far  as  the 
difference  of  age  would  allow,  of  brothers. 

"  If  her  name  is  Ruth,  I  might  as  well  call 
her  so,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  call  her  so  before  her  face  ? " 

"I  haven't  yet." 

"  You  contemplate  it  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  thrust  his  hands 
deep  into  his  pockets,  and  looked  at  the  ceiling. 
99 


"I  should  n't  be  surprised,"  he  said. 

He  spoke  as  a  man  might  speak  who  contem- 
plated astonishing  his  friends  by  buying  a  palatial 
yacht  or  a  beautiful  estate.  It  was  well  that  I 
had  not  seated  myself.  I  laid  down  my  hat,  and 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  Of  the 
varied  emotions  which  stirred  me,  indignation 
was  uppermost.  If  Ruth  had  promised  to  marry 
him,  his  tone  betrayed  his  unworthiness  ;  if  she 
had  not,  it  was  nothing  less  than  insolent. 

He  did  not  notice  my  agitation.  I  was  glad 
that  he  felt  talkative  and  was  likely  to  explain 
himself  before  I  needed  to  speak. 

"  I  suppose  you  '11  give  me  your  flowers  to 
add  to  mine,  since  it 's  all  in  the  family,"  he 
laughed.  "  One  big  bunch  makes  a  better  show- 
ing than  two  little  ones.  We  '11  call  it  a  joint 
tribute  to  her  beauty. 

"  She  is  a  beauty,  is  n't  she  ?  "  he  went  on. 
"  The  different  elements  seem  to  be  put  together 
just  right  in  her  to  make  the  finest  effect.  At  one 
time  or  another  in  my  life,  I  have  thought  half 
a  dozen  girls  just  about  right.  Kitty  Davener 
was  a  daisy,  but  she  is  n't  so  young-looking  now. 
100 


I  used  to  think  nothing  could  be  any  finer.  She 
used  to  be  such  a  cute  little  thing  —  dimpling 
cheeks,  babyish  mouth,  questioning  eyes  (as  if 
she  were  afraid  you  were  trying  to  'bluff'  her), 
snub  nose  —  that  a  fellow  wanted  to  cuddle  her 
right  inside  his  overcoat,  and  carry  her  home  to 
help  him  fill  his  easy-chair. 

"  Then,  as  I  speak,  I  can  see  the  rhythm 
of  Laura  Campbell's  lithe  body,  so  luxuriously 
moulded.  And  then  think  of  that  wonderful 
complexion  of  hers,  —  so  smooth,  so  fair,  so 
soft !  It  makes  a  fellow  want  to  get  up  against 
her  cheek,  just  to  get  the  sensation  of  mere 
lusciousness. 

"  But  Ruth  Appleton  is  n't  like  the  others," 
he  continued ;  "  she  has  n't  quite  the  same  effect 
on  me.  She  's  doubtless  quite  as  fine,  and  when 
I  stop  to  think  of  it,  I  realize  it ;  but  it  is  gen- 
erally only  unconsciously  that  one  has  the  sense 
of  how  very  fine  an  animal  she  is,  with  her  tall, 
well-knit  figure,  clear,  vigorous  complexion,  and 
vigorous  carriage.  She  's  so  fine  an  all-around 
girl,  with  her  clear  head  and  plucky  spirit,  that 
the  other  girls  are  n't  in  the  same  game  with  her. 


She  suits  me  to  a  T.  It  would  n't  be  half 
bad  if  she  had  the  same  sort  of  feeling  toward 
me." 

"Then  you  haven't  told  her  yet  all  the 
admiration  she  calls  out  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  But  if  you  are  in  love  with  her,"  I  asked, 
"  what  about  Laura  Campbell  and  the  love  you 
thought  you  had  for  her  before  you  saw  Miss 
Appleton  ? " 

"  Nothing  new." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"  Our  relations  have  n't  changed." 

*'  Then  what  do  you  call  them  ? "  I  asked,  in 
astonishment. 

"Just  now  they  come  without  calling  ;  they 
are  hanging  fire,  I  guess." 

"  Well,  what  will  they  ever  amount  to  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Miss  Appleton  knows  more 
about  it  than  I.  If  I  can  get  her  for  myself,  why, 
naturally,  I  shall  lose  Laura ;  if  I  lose  Ruth,  I 
hope  to  get  Laura." 

In  spite  of  my  fear  lest  I  should  alienate  his 
confidence,  I  found  it  hard  to  keep  my  temper. 


"  Do  you  mean  that  you  love  both  girls  at 
once  ? " 

"  Not  exactly  that ;  but  I  have  stopped  lov- 
ing Laura  for  a  while,  as  it  were,  to  see  whether 
I  can  win  Ruth." 

"  Be  good  enough  to  call  her  Miss  Appleton 
until  she  grants  you  permission  to  speak  of  her  as 
Ruth,  please.  What  do  you  suppose  she  would 
think  of  such  a  proceeding,  if  she  knew  ?  " 

"  She  ought  to  feel  highly  complimented  that 
I  should  keep  my  affection  for  Laura  waiting  on 
herself." 

"  Pardon  my  bluntness,  but  you  are  very 
much  mistaken ;  she  would  scorn  you,  if  she 
knew  it.  Do  you  think  she  wants  such  a  love 
as  you  could  give  her  ? " 

"I  would  give  her  all  I  have.  No  one  else 
would  have  any  of  it." 

"  Doubtless.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  asked 
what  kind  of  love  you  could  give  her.  I  should 
like  to  hear  her  express  an  opinion  of  the  love  of 
a  man  who,  because  he  could  n't  win  the  girl  he 
would  like  to  marry,  would  marry  a  girl  because 
he  could  win  her.  You  say  that  if  you  can't 
103 


win  your  first  choice,  you  will  not  hesitate  to 
ask  in  marriage  a  girl  whom  you  call  in  your 
heart  your  second  choice.  I  hope  the  second 
choice  would  be  satisfied  with  the  love  she  got. 
I  call  that  a  bargain,  not  marriage." 

"  But  I  told  you  Miss  Appleton  was  my  first 
choice.  I  love  her  well  enough  to  satisfy  her, 
or  any  woman.  I  adore  her.  She  just  fits  my 
notion  of  what  a  woman  ought  to  be.  I  love 
just  such  blue  eyes  and  brown  hair  and  innocent 
nose  and  smiling  lips  and  tall  figure  and  musical 
voice  and  gracious  temper." 

"  Ah,  do  you  ?  If  I  were  her  lover,  I  should 
love  blue  eyes  because  hers  are  blue ;  I  should 
love   brown    hair  because   hers   is   brown ;    I 
should  love  such  lips  and  figure  and  voice  because 
hers  are  such.     See  the  difference  ?  " 
"  Y-yes  —  what  little  there  is. " 
"  There  's  all  the  difference  in  the  world." 
"  At  any  rate,   Miss  Appleton  is  my  first 
choice,  and  that 's  what  you  say  she  cares  about ; 
so  I  am  all  right  on  that  score." 

"  It  is  n't  enough  that  she  shall  be  first  choice. 
Quality  of  love  is  just  as  important.      She  will 
104 


never  marry  a  man  who  could  marry  a  woman 
second  in  his  heart." 

He  sat  in  silence  for  a  time. 

"  I  'm  glad  that  I  don't  see  things  as  you  do," 
he  said,  at  last.  "  Still,"  he  continued,  a  moment 
later,  "  if  your  point  of  view  is  the  correct  one, 
I  wish  I  could  see  from  it." 

"  I  fear  that  we  shall  never  see  from  the  same 
points  of  view.  I  have  tried  to  show  you  mine. 
Let 's  change  the  subject." 

It  was  perhaps  fortunate  for  my  future  peace 
of  mind  that  after  my  conversation  with  Harry 
no  peculiar  opportunities  either  for  aiding  or 
hampering  him  in  his  suit  chanced  to  fall  in  my 
way.  In  spite  of  my  fondness  for  him,  I  could 
hardly  have  looked  on  quietly  while  a  man  who 
spoke  as  he  spoke  sought  to  make  Ruth  his  wife. 

I  did  not  give  him  my  flowers.  When  he 
had  gone,  I  sent  for  a  messenger.  I  wrote  a  few 
words  on  my  card,  and  attached  it  to  the  bunch  ; 
but  before  the  messenger  had  closed  the  door,  I 
called  him  back,  and  removed  the  card. 


105 


VIII. 

I  WAS  not  patriotic  on  Memorial  Day.  I 
somehow  dislike  a  crowd,  because  it  is  a 
crowd.  When  I  started  out  for  my  daily  exer- 
cise, I  took  a  direction  away  from  the  cemetery. 
I  wandered  across  fields  and  through  groves, 
regardless  of  the  right  of  property  in  land.  Ruth 
was  in  my  thoughts,  as  usual.  We  were  on  the 
best  of  terms  ;  for  not  a  week  passed  without  a 
forenoon  or  afternoon  of  walking  or  riding  or 
canoeing  together.  She  found  no  other  girls 
who  wanted  so  much  exercise ;  I  wanted  no 
other  companion  :  so  we  went  together,  —  and 
quiet,  unconventional  Madawanipee  did  n't  care. 
They  say  that  we  cannot  have  our  cake  and  eat 
it  too ;  yet  I  seemed  to  do  so.  I  had  the  mem- 
ory of  Highbank  days  with  Agnes,  and  yet  with 
Ruth  I  was  living  them  all  over  again.  All,  did 
I  say  ?  No,  not  quite  all ;  I  am  an  old  man  now. 
I  passed  over  a  knoll,  and  came  suddenly  upon 
106 


a  man's  figure  stretched  prostrate  on  the  grass, 
face  downward.  The  arms  were  folded  under 
the  forehead.  I  did  not  wish  to  intrude  if  the 
position  was  voluntary,  and  yet  I  thought  it  wise 
to  investigate.  I  stopped  to  watch  for  a  mo- 
ment. Just  as  I  was  about  to  go  forward,  the 
man  turned  over.  I  recognized  him  as  a  fellow- 
boarder,  who  had  within  the  last  three  months 
come  to  Madawanipee  from  a  hamlet  forty  miles 
away.  He  had  but  recently  cast  his  first  vote. 

"  Your  position  startled  me,"  said  I,  when  he 
recognized  me.  "  I  did  n't  know  but  that  I  had 
found  a  case  for  the  coroner.  Which  would  you 
rather  that  it  would  be,  a  murder  or  a  suicide  ?  " 

As  I  spoke,  I  drew  nearer,  and  saw  that  his 
face  was  drawn  hard,  as  if  almost  in  despair. 

"  I  don't  know  as  it  would  make  much  differ- 
ence," he  answered. 

He  sat  up,  and  tried  to  throw  off  his  mood ; 
but  my  chance  greeting  had  made  it  harder  than 
ever. 

"  You  really  look  as  if  you  would  n't  mind 
either  very  much.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are 
you  sick  ? " 

107 


"  Oh,  no,  not  at  all."  There  was  no  life  in 
his  voice. 

I  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him  as  soon  as  I  saw  him 
at  the  house.  I  wanted  him  to  succeed  in  life,  but 
his  mood  warranted  the  expectation  of  anything 
but  success.  I  sat  down  on  a  rock  near  him, 
even  at  the  risk  of  intruding ;  I  meant  at  least 
to  turn  the  current  of  his  thoughts. 

"  A  man  has  no  right  to  look  as  you  do 
unless  something  is  the  matter  with  him,"  said 
I,  trying  to  smile.  "  A  dozen  such  people  in  a 
community  would  hide  the  sun.  You  owe  it 
to  the  world  to  cheer  up." 

He  looked  up  at  me  almost  fiercely,  with  the 
old,  old  question  on  his  lips. 

"  How  much  do  I  owe  the  world  ?  It 's  your 
devilish  town  here  that  has  made  me  as  I  am. 
Do  I  owe  the  town  a  bright  face  in  return  ?  I 
came  here  with  some  faith  in  God  and  man,  — 
and  woman,  too.  They  have  pretty  nearly 
taken  it  all  away.  Nobody  cares  for  the  good 
in  him  or  in  other  people.  Everybody  lives  on 
the  brutish  side  of  himself  here ;  and,  what 
makes  me  hate  myself,  I  begin  to  wonder 
108 


whether  it  was  n't  so  at  home,  only  I  did  n't 
see  it  because  I  was  so  green." 

"  I  know  how  you  feel.  I  've  been  in  the 
same  place  myself.  You  're  morbid.  You  have 
been  looking  at  one  side  of  life  too  long,  —  and 
the  wrong  side.  You  have  shut  yourself  up  in 
your  shell,  and  have  thought  that  you  could  see 
into  other  people's  shells  ;  but  you  must  remem- 
ber that  you  can't,  until  you  have  opened  your 
own  so  as  to  see  out  better.  Take  my  word 
for  it,  for  awhile,  that  your  old  faith  in  the 
good  is  all  right,  — not  only  as  a  faith,  but  as  a 
working  principle.  You  will  see  it  for  yourself, 
soon." 

I  succeeded  in  cheering  him  a  bit ;  but,  best 
of  all,  I  got  a  promise  from  him  to  go  up  stream 
with  me  on  his  part  holiday,  Saturday.  I  appre- 
ciated his  desperate  state.  There  is,  perhaps, 
none  harder  in  life,  —  alone,  unloving,  and  un- 
loved; the  evil  thrusting  themselves  in  one's 
face,  the  good  holding  back  their  skirts -because 
one  has  not  been  "  properly  presented." 

As  soon  as  we  parted,  I  made  what  I  thought 
a  bold  move.  I  went  straight  to  Ruth.  When 
109 


I  arrived,  she  was  telling  Harry,  who  was  stand- 
ing hat  in  hand,  that  she  would  be  delighted  to 
join  a  sailing  party  for  Saturday  afternoon.  My 
hopes  fell.  I  saw  that  I  had  saddled  my  young 
friend  Cobb  with  myself  for  a  companion  on 
Saturday,  and  had  lost  the  one  help  which  I  had 
meant  to  carry  him.  As  soon  as  Harry  left,  I 
told  her  my  errand,  but  said  that  I  withdrew 
from  the  field. 

When  I  had  left  the  house,  Miss  Campbell 
came  into  my  mind  as  a  possible  substitute.  She 
was  bright  enough  to  entertain  Cobb,  but  she 
had  little  of  the  deep  sympathy  which  I  wished 
to  put  in  his  way.  At  all  events,  she  would 
make  my  little  party  more  cheerful ;  and  cheer 
I  must  have.  I  found  her  at  home,  and  appar- 
ently glad  to  go. 

The  next  afternoon,  however,  a  note  came 
from  Ruth  asking  whether  my  invitation  for 
Saturday  still  held  good.  I  hurried  to  her  in 
joyful  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  she  said;  "I  am  regretting  what  I 
did  yesterday.  I  may  as  well  be  frank  with  you. 
I  was  pleased  that  Mr.  Templeman  should  ask 


me  to  go  with  him ;  besides,  I  wanted  to  be 
with  the  party.  I  knew  I  ought  not  to  go  wjth 
him,  —  it  is  n't  necessary  to  say  why,  —  but  the 
temptation  was  too  great.  He  seemed  to  care 
so  much  that  my  vanity  was  tickled,  and  I  con- 
sented against  my  better  judgment.  It 's  per- 
haps just  as  wrong  to  decline  to  go  now  as  it 
was  to  accept  in  the  beginning.  There  is  bound 
to  be  wrong  somewhere,  for  it 's  already  done. 
I  would  rather  go  with  you.  I  may  do  harm 
by  going  to  the  sailing  party  on  the  river;  but 
I  can't  do  much  harm  by  going  up  the  stream 
with  you  and  the  young  friend  you  want  me  to 
meet.  So  I  've  asked  Mr.  Templeman  to  ex- 
cuse me,  and  I  'm  going  with  you,  if  you  '11 
take  me." 

"  Indeed  I  shall.  I  was  very  much  disap- 
pointed yesterday  when  I  thought  I  could  n't 
have  you.  Miss  Campbell  is  going  too,  and  we 
shall  try  to  have  a  jolly  little  party." 

"I  am  glad  Miss  Campbell  is  going;  she  is 
always  so  wide  awake." 

I  told  her  nothing  about  young  Cobb,  except 
that  he  was  from  the  country,  —  a  long  way  off, 


—  was  very  lonesome,  and  was,  I  suspected, 
very  bashful.  We  planned  to  take  a  luncheon 
up  the  stream  with  us,  and  stay  until  early  even- 
ing, so  as  to  get  the  best  lights  and  shadows  on 
the  trees. 

I  went  to  Miss  Campbell  at  once  to  tell  her 
of  the  addition  to  the  party.  I  innocently  ex- 
pected her  to  be  as  glad  as  I. 

"  Ruth  Appleton  will  be  just  the  girl  for  that 
sort  of  excursion,"  she  commented.  "  If  the 
young  man  is  lonesome  among  strangers  here, 
as  you  say,  she  will  help  greatly  to  cheer  him 
up.  She  's  such  a  homelike,  domestic  body." 
She  had  been  looking  into  my  face  when  she 
first  spoke.  As  she  continued,  she  looked  down, 
and  toyed  with  a  card  on  the  table.  "  Just  to 
look  at  her  makes  one  feel  comfortable.  She  's 
almost  grandmotherly,  sometimes.  Everyone 
falls  in  love  with  grandmothers,  you  know. 
Perhaps  that 's  why  every  one  falls  in  love  with 
her.  Every  one  does,  from  the  driver  of  the 
town  offal-wagon  to  the  Baptist  minister.  A  girl 
who  does  n't  seem  grandmotherly  does  n't  count 
at  all  since  she  came." 


There  was  a  touch  almost  of  bitterness  in  her 
tones  ;  yet  she  was  smiling. 

"It's  a  new  style,  perhaps,"  she  added. 
"  New  styles  are  generally  taking  —  at  first." 

"  Of  course,  then,  you  are  glad  to  have  so 
many  chances  for  studying  the  new  style  ;  .1  have 
seen  you  with  Miss  Appleton  several  times." 

"  Yes,  I  was  with  her  a  good  deal  when  she 
first  came  ;  but  you  see  I  caught  the  style  at  last, 
and  don't  need  to  study  it  any  more." 

"  And  now  you  are  one  of  those  who  help 
to  spread  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  It  is  n't  catching  like  that.  No- 
body ever  caught  it  from  me.  Besides,  it 's  not  at 
all  dangerous ;  most  of  us  get  over  it  very  easily." 

I  tried  in  vain  to  get  at  the  meaning  of  this 
remark.  It  seemed  to  reflect  a  little  unpleasantly 
upon  Ruth,  —  unless,  indeed,  Miss  Campbell 
had  over-reached  herself  in  trying  to  say  some- 
thing bright.  Before  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
how  to  interpret  it,  she  spoke  again  :  — 

"Now  that  Miss  Appleton  has  consented  to 
go,  you  don't  need  me.  She  can  grandmother 
your  friend,  whereas  I  could  n't  even  cousin 
113 


him.  You  would  n't  miss  me  much  if  I  did  n't 
go,  after  all,  would  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  have  been  counting  on  you,  of 
course." 

"  Oh,  that «  of  course  '  tells  it  all.  You  know 
what  we  always  mean  when  we  say  «  of  course  ' 
about  ourselves.  It 's  only  a  little  compromise 
with  our  consciences  for  telling  a  little  less  than 
the  truth,  —  or  is  it  sometimes  a  little  more  ? 
You  see  you  don't  care  much  about  my  going 
now  that  you  have  Miss  Appleton.  I  have  an 
invitation  to  go  to  Richmond  for  a  few  days, 
starting  to-morrow.  If  I  am  to  go  with  you,  I 
must  give  up  Richmond." 

"  Indeed,  I  shall  be  sorry  to  miss  you,  but 
you  would  probably  be  as  sorry  to  lose  the  visit. 
So  I  excuse  you,  if  I  must ;  but  I  am  sorry  to 
lose  you." 

"  What  a  sorry  affair  we  are  !  But  it  will 
soon  be  over.  I  '11  find  comfort  in  Richmond, 
and  you  '11  find  it  in  Miss  Appleton  —  like 
Naomi." 

I  began  to  suspect  that  Miss  Campbell  was 
not  altogether  happy.  Harry  had  been  paying 
114 


her  much  less  attention  in  the  last  few  weeks 
than  formerly.  This  might  or  might  not  affect 
her  frame  of  mind.  If  matters  stood  between 
them  as  was  commonly  reported,  it  should.  Be- 
sides, an  interruption  had  come  in  the  series  of 
excursions  which  she  and  I  had  taken  with  semi- 
regularity  since  my  first  interest  in  her  as  a  young 
school-girl.  She  could  not  care  much  for  this  ; 
but  she  might  care  for  the  cause  of  it.  She  would 
have  come  very  near  the  truth  if  she  had  said 
that  people  deserted  her  for  Miss  Appleton.  I 
had  done  so  unconsciously.  I  suspected  that 
Harry  had  done  so,  too,  though  he  was  proba- 
bly thoroughly  conscious  of  it.  A  girl  of  her 
disposition  could  not  help  caring  that  another  had 
supplanted  her,  even  though  she  cared  but  little 
intrinsically  for  the  position  lost.  At  all  events, 
she  was  just  then  none  too  fond  of  Ruth. 

When  I  called  for  Ruth,  Saturday  afternoon, 
she  was  putting  up  the  lunch.  She  took  me  into 
the  dining-room  to  help.  I  watched  her  deft 
fingers  making  small  parcels  and  packing  them 
into  incomprehensibly  small  space. 
"5 


"  Did  you  say  that  he  is  very  lonesome  ?  " 
she  asked,  as  she  examined  a  flask  carefully  be- 
fore putting  in  cold  tea. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  he  is  always  so,  but 
he  has  been  frightfully  so  during  the  last  week." 

"  Is  it  homesickness  ?  " 

"  Much  of  it  is  not ;  perhaps  some  of  it  is. 
He  has  unfortunately  seen  the  worst  side  of  life 
here,  and  he  has  begun  to  lose  faith  in  the  good ; 
he  begins  to  fear  that  all  good  appearances  are 
but  shams." 

"  How  horrible  !  " 

"  I  want  to  give  him  a  glimpse  of  the  best 
of —  "  I  stopped.  It  might  not  be  wise  to  tell 
Miss  Appleton  just  what  I  thought  of  her.  Be- 
sides, none  of  us  is  quite  himself  if  he  is  supposed 
to  be  on  his  best  behavior.  If  we  know  that 
others  are  watching  us,  and  are  expecting  us  to 
do  certain  acts  of  graciousness,  we  are  uncom- 
fortably self-conscious.  Spontaneity  is  gone,  or, 
at  least,  though  it  be  not,  we  are  never  sure  of 
it.  So  I  spared  her.  "I  want  to  get  him  away 
from  the  town  and  from  all  the  thoughts  con- 
nected with  it,"  I  said. 
116 


She  was  putting  knives  and  forks  into  the  bas- 
ket. She  stopped  with  them  in  mid-air. 

"  Is  he  very  bashful,  do  you  think  ? " 

"I  really  don't  know  how  he  would  be  with 
a  young  woman  ;  I  fear  so." 

She  put  the  knives  and  forks  at  the  bottom. 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  took  them  out 
again. 

"Wherefore?"!  asked. 

"  You  will  see  when  the  time  comes,"  she 
answered  gayly. 

She  started  for  the  kitchen,  but  came  back. 

"  Are  you  willing  to  be  a  martyr  for  this 
young  man's  sake  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  How  much  of  a  martyr  ?  " 

"Oh,  suppose  you  knew  that  your  canoe 
would  tip  you  out,  would  you  still  go  for  his 
sake  ? " 

"  Yes,  provided  you  were  there  to  rescue  me 
with  your  strong  swimming  stroke.  Why  ?  " 

"  I  was  wondering  how  much  you  care  to 
please  him." 

She  went  out.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned 
with  another  flask.  An  ill-concealed  smile 
117 


played  about  her  face  as  she  put  it  at  the  top  of 
the  basket. 

At  four  o'clock,  we  were  at  the  landing.  My 
new  friend  had  been  accustomed  to  a  canoe  from 
childhood  ;  he  came  from  a  lake  country.  Miss 
Appleton  at  once  put  him  at  his  ease  by  telling 
me  that  he  and  she  were  going  to  turn  the  tables 
on  me,  —  that  they  were  going  to  do  the  pad- 
dling, and  treat  the  host  as  guest.  As  she  knew 
the  stream  and  he  did  not,  she  took  the  after 
paddling  seat.  I  sat  between  them  on  the  bot- 
tom of  the  canoe,  with  my  hat  lying  by  my  side. 
The  conversation  was  spasmodic,  touching  upon 
canoeing,  the  stream,  the  trees,  the  shadows. 
The  full  length  of  a  canoe  is  not  the  best  dis- 
tance for  continued  conversation. 

Young  Cobb  was  a  good  paddler,  and  he  knew 
it.  He  knew,  too,  that  Ruth  saw  it.  This 
source  of  satisfaction  told  upon  him.  His  tim- 
idity wore  off  under  it.  His  wit  was  not  slow  ; 
and,  encouraged  by  our  occasional  remarks  or 
questions,  his  words  came  easily. 

We  had  been  paddling  about  half  an  hour, 
when  Ruth  declared  that  she  was  thirsty. 
118 


"  Mr.  Cobb,"  she  said,  "  won't  you  open 
the  basket  there  in  the  bow,  and  take  out  the 
flask  that  lies  on  the  top  and  bring  it  down  to 
me  ? " 

He  found  it  without  difficulty,  and  stepped 
down  toward  me,  with  his  paddle  in  one  hand. 
I  moved  to  let  him  by.  The  canoe  gave  a 
little  lurch. 

"  Be  careful,  Mr.  Robertson,"  she  exclaimed, 
laughing,  "  or  you  '11  have  us  upset.  There, 
don't  bother  to  come  away  by,  but  let  me  reach 
the  flask  over  Mr.  Robertson's  head." 

She  reached  forward  to  take  it,  throwing  a 
shawl  playfully  around  my  shoulders  as  she  did 
so.  I  wondered  a  little  at  it.  She  still  held  her 
paddle,  and  he  held  his.  Neither  alone  could 
pull  the  drinking-cup  from  the  bottom  of  the 
flask  except  after  laying  down  the  paddle. 

"  Hold  on  to  the  top,  and  I  will  pull  the  cup 
from  the  bottom,"  she  said  to  him. 

It  stuck.     They  pulled  hard,  and  then  I  felt 
something  give  way.    On  the  moment  the  canoe 
gave  a  deep  lurch  to  one  side,  and  water  came 
pouring  into  my  eyes  and  mouth. 
119 


"  We  're  over  !  "  I  cried. 

A  rippling  laugh  came  from  over  my  head. 
I  shook  the  water  out  of  my  eyes,  and  found  my- 
self sitting  as  before  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe. 
Ruth  and  Cobb  were  shaking  with  laughter. 
The  flask  had  broken  in  two  directly  above  me. 

The  shawl  had  kept  my  clothes  dry,  but  my 
face  and  hair  were  dripping.  When  I  saw  the 
broken  flask,  and  realized  what  a  spectacle  I 
must  present,  I  could  not  help  laughing  heartily 
at  myself.  Cobb  joined  more  freely  when  he  saw 
how  I  took  it.  From  that  moment  we  were 
all  on  the  best  of  terms.  A  little  wholesome 
laughter  will  break  even  the  biggest  barrier. 

When  we  reached  the  place  which  we  had 
chosen  for  luncheon,  Cobb  fell  back  into  his  old 
reserve.  For  a  few  moments  I  could  not  ex- 
plain the  change.  I  soon  discovered,  however, 
that  he  did  not  know  just  what  to  do  with  him- 
self. It  was  contrary  to  his  sense  of  propriety 
to  lie  back  lazily  while  Miss  Appleton  spread 
the  lunch.  He  was  nervous  to  be  doing  some- 
thing as  his  share  of  the  work,  and  yet  he  dared 
not  offer  his  clumsy  fingers  to  help  about  the 


basket.  While  I  was  wondering  what  to  do  to 
put  him  at  his  ease,  Ruth  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Cobb,  have  you  a  knife  ? " 

"  Yes.     Would  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  do  a  very  difficult 
piece  of  work.  I  did  n't  bring  any  knives  or 
forks.  We  must  have  at  least  one  of  each,  and 
you  will  have  to  whittle  them  for  us.  We  can 
eat  from  our  fingers ;  but  I  want  a  knife  and 
fork  for  handling  butter,  sardines,  and  the  like. 
Do  you  suppose  you  can  make  them  ? " 

She  was  looking  straight  into  his  eyes,  and 
smiling.  I  wondered  whether  a  man  could  n't 
do  anything  under  the  sun  if  that  girl  looked  at 
him  so  and  asked  him. 

I  knew  now  why  she  had  left  out  the  knives 
and  forks. 

"  How  wonderfully  thoughtful  you  are  !  "  I 
exclaimed,  when  he  had  gone  to  find  the  proper 
sticks  for  whittling. 

"  How  sillily  so  !  I  want  to  say  to  myself.  I 
did  one  frightfully  silly  thing  to-day.  Do  you 
remember  my  asking  you  whether  you  objected 
to  being  a  martyr  for  his  sake  ?  Well,  like  a  silly 

121 


child,  I  planned  that  ducking  for  you,  —  though 
not  just  in  that  way.  I  remembered  that  a  good 
laugh  is  the  best  way  to  do  away  with  stiffness. 
So  I  took  a  broken  flask  purposely,  hoping  to 
have  some  little  fun  out  of  it.  I  had  to  make 
you  the  victim,  for  I  feared  that  he  would  think 
it  unmannerly  to  laugh  if  I  were  the  victim ; 
but  it  turned  out  ever  so  much  better  than  I 
expected.  Yet  I  feel  that  it  was  very  childish 
to  make  it  deliberately  at  all." 

"  I  don't  see  it  so.  It  had  just  the  effect  you 
wanted." 

"  Yes ;  but  it  seems  like  deceiving  him." 

"  No  ;  for  the  actual  happening  —  at  any 
rate,  my  thinking  that  we  had  tipped  over  — 
was  unpremeditated.  It  certainly  was  very 
funny.  It  goes  to  prove  what  I  just  said,  — 
that  you  are  wonderfully  thoughtful." 

Her  only  answer  was  a  smile  and  a  playful 
"Pooh!" 

I  suppose  all  New  England  country  boys  are 
experts  with  the  jack-knife,  or  aspire  to  be. 
Whittling  is  almost  the  national  perennial  amuse- 
ment. Cobb  was  no  exception.  Before  the 


coffee  was  ready,  he  laid  before  Miss  Appleton 
a  slender,  straight-bladed,  flexible  knife  and  two 
strong,  three-pronged  forks. 

"  How  beautiful !  Where  did  you  learn  to 
make  such  beauties  ?  " 

"  I  learned  to  make  knives  and  forks  on  the 
Madawanipee  River ;  I  can't  remember  the 
time  when  I  could  n't  whittle." 

"  I  thought  that  you  had  but  recently  come 
to  Madawanipee." 

"  That  is  true.  I  never  tried  to  make  a  knife 
or  fork  before." 

"  Oh,  then  you  not  only  learned  the  process, 
but  discovered  it  as  well." 

Our  luncheon  was  very  simple,  but  it  was 
eminently  fitting,  —  a  compliment  merited  by 
few  luncheons  put  up  by  picnicking  women.  It 
was  not  composed  one  half  of  cake,  one  quarter 
of  mashed  pie,  and  the  remainder  of  thick  sand- 
wiches which  could  not  be  bitten  through. 
Everything  was  recognizable  at  first  sight.  The 
salad  —  I  won't  risk  my  literary  reputation  by 
trying  to  describe  it  — knew  its  place  ;  it  hadn't 
gone  visiting  among  the  wafers,  pickles,  and 
123 


sugar.      The  cake  was  not  thirst-inspiring,  and 
there  was  no  needless  loaf  to  carry  back. 

Miss  Appleton  sat  on  a  little  knoll,  with  her 
back  against  a  tree.  Cobb  sat  upon  a  stone  at 
her  right  hand ;  and  I  rested  upon  one  elbow 
on  the  grass  at  her  feet,  happy,  and  caring  only 
that  they  would  not  remind  me  that  I  was  not 
young  like  them. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  Miss 
Appleton  asked,  turning  to  Cobb. 

"About  three  months." 

"Do  you  like  the  town  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  it 's  very  pretty.  I  am  getting  along 
pretty  well  here ;  and  yet  I  ought  to  say,  if  I  'm 
going  to  be  frank,  that  I  don't  like  it." 

"  How  strange  !  It 's  pretty,  and  you  are 
prosperous,  and  yet  you  don't  like  it."  She 
looked  up  into  his  face  as  if  he  were  about  to 
tell  some  very  interesting  story. 

"  I  seem  to  be  out  of  my  element  here,"  he 
said.  "  I  seem  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  that 
does  n't  agree  with  me.  I  'm  irritable,  sour, 
what  I  believe  you  call  cynical,  all  the  time.  I 
was  never  so  at  home." 
124 


"  Tell  me  about  your  home,  won't  you  ?  I 
love  all  New  England  towns." 

"  It  is  n't  much  of  a  town,  —  nothing  but  a 
hamlet ;  two  stores,  a  blacksmith-shop,  a  saw- 
mill, a  tavern,  a  church,  and  a  dozen  houses 
are  all." 

"  That 's  all  the  more  interesting.  I  think 
I  can  see  the  place  now.  On  summer  noons, 
not  a  sound  is  heard  except  the  clatter  of  dishes 
when  you  pass  a  house,  or  the  munching  of  a 
horse  which  crops  the  grass  at  the  side  of  the 
road.  It  is  quiet  like  that  all  day,  is  n't  it, 
except  for  the  occasional  rattle  of  the  big  chain 
that  draws  logs  up  into  the  mill,  or  the  occa- 
sional soothing  buzz  of  a  saw,  or  the  ring  of  the 
blacksmith's  anvil  ? " 

"  Yes ;  it  is  quiet  always.  Now  and  then  a 
farmer's  wagon  rattles  down  the  hill,  or  a  mow- 
ing-machine clatters  along  the  road ;  but  most 
of  the  time  it  is  perfectly  still." 

"  Yes ;  as  you  spoke  I  could  hear  the  creak 
of  the  whiffle-tree  on  the  farmer's  wagon  and  the 
click,  click,  click  of  the  mowing-machine.    Does 
the  mill  run  by  water  ?  " 
125 


"Yes." 

*'  And  does  the  brook  that  feeds  it  flow 
through  the  hamlet,  with  a  well-worn  bridge 
over  it  ? " 

"  Yes."     He  smiled  at  her  guesses. 

"  I  think  I  can  see  the  village  now.  One 
can  lie  on  the  grass  under  the  trees  beside  the 
road  by  the  bank  of  the  stream  day  after  day, 
and  watch  the  colors  come  and  go,  and  hear  and 
see  the  birds,  and  watch  the  grazing  cattle,  and 
see  the  people  drive  lazily  by,  and  never  hear  a 
harsh  sound,  nor  see  a  hideous  thing,  nor  feel 
an  ignoble  impulse,  nor  know  of  vice  or  pain  or 
struggle." 

She  had  been  speaking  quietly  and  slowly, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  canoe.  It  lay  half- 
hidden  behind  the  bushes.  For  my  mood  there 
was  a  poem  in  its  beautiful  lines  and  in  its  grace- 
ful poise  upon  the  water.  He  looked  only  at 
her.  His  face  brightened  as  her  imagination 
took  her  farther  and  farther  into  his  old  home. 

"  But  tell  me  about  the  people,"  Ruth  con- 
tinued. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tell.  They  are  very 
126 


plain  people,  dressed  in  coarse,  ill-fitting  clothes ; 
but  they  are  honest."  He  spoke  with  something 
of  pride  ;  but  as  he  went  on  his  face  darkened, 
and  his  tone  became  bitter.  "  They  are  awk- 
ward, bungling  in  everything  they  do.  They 
never  have  any  pleasure,  as  pleasure  goes  here. 
I  suppose  they  cheat  themselves  into  thinking 
they  are  happy,  —  in  their  ignorance  ;  and  I  sup- 
pose they  are  no  better  than  they  ought  to  be, 
nor  as  good  as  they  look." 

He  was  not  looking  at  her  now ;  but  she 
had  watched  him  from  the  moment  his  tone 
changed. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  like  to  think  of  the  people 
in  these  towns  as  well  as  to  think  of  the  towns 
themselves.  They  have  such  glorious  freedom. 
A  woman  is  in  the  middle  of  her  washing,  with 
her  sleeves  rolled  above  the  elbows.  If  she 
wants  to  speak  to  a  neighbor,  out  she  goes.  No 
dressing, — not  even  the  sleeves  turned  down, 
—  no  windows  and  doors  to  lock,  but  just  '  up 
and  away.'  In  such  places,  people  live  their 
own  lives  in  their  own  way.  Little  or  nothing 
is  done  or  left  undone  for  fear  of  what  '  people 
127 


will  say ; '  and  everybody  helps  everybody  else. 
Is  n't  it  so?" 

"Yes,  it  must  be  admitted  that's  a  thing  people 
are  generous  of;  they  are  generous  of  trouble, 
though  far  from  it  with  respect  to  money." 

"  Tell  me  about  the  young  women,  or  girls. 
There  must  be  some  about  my  age." 

"  Yes,  there  are  two  in  the  village ;  one  is 
the  school-teacher,  and  the  other  is  the  doctor's 
daughter.  Well,  the  school-teacher  is  tall  and 
dark,  with  black  hair  and  smaH  hands  and  — " 

Miss  Appleton  interrupted  him  with  a  laugh. 

"  Would  it  make  any  difference  if  she  were 
light  and  short,  with  red  hair  and  small  hands  ? " 

I  expected  to  see  him  close  his  shell  again ; 
but  he  seemed  to  enjoy  her  raillery. 

"  Why,  no,  I  suppose  not.  But  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  hear  about  her." 

"  So  I  do ;  but  the  length  and  breadth  and 
color  of  her  are  not  she.  I  would  rather  know 
what  she  reads  and  what  she  dreams  and  what 
she  does  with  her  time.  But  never  mind.  You 
are  not  much  interested  in  the  school-teachei 
yourself.  Tell  me  about  the  doctor's  daughter. 
128 


You  may  tell  me  about  her  height  and  hair  and 
hands  if  you  like." 

"  It  does  n't  make  much  difference.  She  's 
tall,  but  light,  and  her  hands  and  feet  are  not  so 
small  as  the  school-teacher's."  He  smiled,  as 
if  to  describe  her  in  such  a  way  were  superflu- 
ous. "  I  don't  know  what  she  thinks  about ;  I 
could  never  altogether  make  out.  Many  days 
she  takes  a  book  out  to  the  river  in  the  morning, 
and  does  n't  come  back  till  night ;  but  when 
she  comes  back,  her  eyes  are  very  bright,  and 
her  face  is  very  peaceful,  —  or  if  not  altogether 
peaceful,  her  mouth  is  very  firm,  though  it  is 
never  hard.  And  then  other  days  she  goes  over 
to  old  Aunt  Hannah's,  as  everybody  calls  her, 
and  stays  there  all  day,  talking  and  reading  out 
loud.  Sometimes,  when  some  of  the  people 
who  live  alone  are  sick,  she  goes  with  her  father, 
and  stays  to  nurse  them.  And  then  when  there 
is  n't  any  minister  in  town,  she  runs  the  Sunday- 
school." 

"Tell  me  more  about  her."  She  looked 
into  his  face  in  a  way  that  said  even  more  than 
her  words. 

129 


"  There  is  n't  much  more  to  tell.  She  is  a 
sort  of  ubiquitous  spiritual  force  in  the  com- 
munity. She  always  carries  sunshine  with  her, 
and  I  was  going  to  say  "  —  he  smiled  at  the 
mixed  metaphor  —  "  a  sunshine  that  leaves  a 
good  taste  in  the  mouth.  As  you  said  a  few 
moments  ago  of  the  village  itself,  one  knows 
nothing  of  vice  or  pain  or  struggle  when  she  's 
about." 

"  I  am  inclined  to  get  angry  at  people  who 
speak,  or  even  think,  slightingly  of  country  life. 
So  many  of  the  noblest,  kindest,  purest  lives  are 
lived  in  our  New  England  country  villages,  in 
what  seems  outwardly  like  emptiness !  I  should 
like  to  know  this  friend  of  yours." 

"  She  did  one  very  funny  thing  just  before 
I  came  away.  She  had  done  something  —  I 
don't  know  what  —  that  she  blamed  herself  for. 
She  said  it  was  giving  in  to  a  temptation  that 
made  her  hate  herself.  There  was  a  little  party 
that  evening,  and  people  came  from  all  the  coun- 
try round.  For  us  it  was  a  great  affair,  though 
it  would  seem  awfully  small  in  Madawanipee. 
She  cared  very  much  about  it,  and  had  been 
130 


looking  forward  to  it  for  days ;  but  to  punish 
herself,  —  or  discipline  herself,  she  called  it,  — 
she  went  home  when  the  evening  was  only  half 
over,  and  she  was  enjoying  herself  most.  I  told 
her  it  was  silly ;  but  she  said  she  was  going  to 
exercise  her  will-power  in  some  wholesome 
discipline." 

"I  believe  in  that  girl,"  Ruth  said. 
"  It  may  have  been  a  silly  thing  to  do,  but  it 
showed  a  spirit  I  like." 

There  was  no  mistaking  Cobb's  gratification. 
His  face  did  not  darken  again  ;  not  even  embar- 
rassment came  into  it  again.  There  was  an 
energy  in  it  that  I  had  not  seen  before  since  he 
first  came  to  Madawanipee.  He  was  himself 
again,  —  and  it  was  almost  a  beautiful  self. 


131 


IX. 

IN  quiet  Madawanipee  the  function  of  a 
church  is  hardly  less  social  than  religious. 
On  Sunday  mornings  everybody  sees  everybody 
else,  if  not  at  church,  at  least  on  the  way. 

The  first  Sunday  in  June  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  the  spring.  There  had  been  a  slight 
rain  during  the  night,  but  a  breeze  which  had 
sprung  up  about  daybreak  had  cleared  the  sky. 
The  new-blown  leaves  were  quivering  in  the 
ecstasy  of  life.  The  air  was  crisp,  but  not  pene- 
trating ;  every  breath  seemed  to  give  new  firm- 
ness and  new  energy  to  every  part  of  body  and 
soul.  It  was  hard  to  pass  within  the  church 
walls  to  dimness  and  heaviness  of  atmosphere 
and  dignified  confinement. 

As  the  moment  for  beginning  the  service 
approached,  I  began  to  fear  that  Ruth  was  not 
coming ;  but  soon  I  saw  her  face  in  the  door- 
way. She  brought  the  morning  with  her  into 
132 


the  church.  It  was  easy  to  wonder  whether 
she  had  not  even  been  the  maker  of  the  morn- 
ing. Its  calm  energy  but  tender  blitheness  had 
their  counterparts  in  her  eyes,  her  cheeks,  and 
her  step.  The  church  was  no  longer  dim,  nor 
its  atmosphere  heavy. 

In  response  to  the  prayer  before  the  sermon, 
a  short  aria  was  given.  It  seemed  to  be  a  very 
song  of  Nature.  It  began  with  the  first  breath 
of  morning  air,  as  one  would  sing  on  waking ; 
then  came  the  growing  exhilaration,  the  eager- 
ness of  conscious  vigor  rising  into  higher  and 
higher  regions  of  activity ;  it  closed  with  a  mount- 
ing strain  of  aspiration.  The  music  was  new 
to  me.  I  had  heard  nothing  new  so  good  for 
a  long  time. 

At  the  close  of  the  sermon,  the  preacher 
prayed  that  God  would  teach  us  about  ourselves, 
and  help  us  to  hold  to  every  fragment  of  truth 
and  love  and  purity  in  our  hearts.  I  watched 
Ruth's  face,  and  saw  that  she  joined  the  prayer 
with  passionate  earnestness.  God  had  never 
seemed  so  great  before.  Even  this  girl,  most 
true,  most  kind,  most  pure,  was  asking  God  to 
133 


make  her  truer,  kinder,  purer ;  and  she  knew 
that  he  would  do  it.  I  cried  out,  almost  aloud, 
unconsciously,  "  How  great,  O  God,  thou 
art!" 

At  the  close  of  the  service,  I  busied  myself 
with  my  gloves  in  the  hope  that  my  delay  would 
put  me  in  Ruth's  way.  Before  I  reached  the 
door,  Cobb  met  me. 

"  Mr.  Robertson,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  thank 
you  enough  for  yesterday.  I  feel  like  a  new 
man  to-day.  Last  evening  I  went  out  on  the 
street,  and  everything  looked  different.  Instead 
of  wondering  whether  every  man  I  saw  was  a 
rake  and  every  woman  a  plaything,  voluntary 
or  involuntary,  I  found  myself  seeing  the  good 
things  in  their  faces.  If  I  saw  a  bundle  in  a 
man's  hand,  it  seemed  as  if  it  must  be  a  present 
for  his  child  or  wife  or  somebody,  and  not 
something  that  he  wanted  to  hide.  The  letters 
which  the  girls  were  taking  from  the  post-office 
were  innocent  schoolmate  effusions,  not  secret 
flirtations  by  mail.  I  was  almost  optimistic ;  but 
I  can  afford  to  be  so  for  awhile  after  so  many 
weeks  of  cynicism.  You  and  Miss  Appleton 


set  me  free.  Best  of  all,  what  Miss  Appleton 
said  about  the  doctor's  daughter  put  the  solid 
ground  under  my  feet.  When  my  morbid  state 
had  taken  away  my  faith  in  my  sister,  life  was 
pretty  hard  living." 

Before  we  overtook  Ruth,  one  of  Cobb's 
employers  came  up  and  carried  him  off  for  din- 
ner. When  I  met  her,  she  was  unengaged.  I 
walked  home  with  her. 

To  me  the  day  had  been  wondrously  beau- 
tiful, —  the  sunlight,  the  crisp  air,  the  waving 
leaves,  the  song,  the  sermon,  the  prayer;  and 
now,  for  a  time  at  least,  Ruth  was  mine.  It 
was  one  of  the  rich  charms  of  the  girl  that  her 
thoughts  and  sympathies  were  never  alien  to  her 
companion.  I  found  her  enthusiastic  over  the 
day  and  the  service,  except  the  music,  which 
she  did  not  appear  to  appreciate. 

"  Do  you  know  who  wrote  it  ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  believe  it  was  an  Agnes  Wentworth." 

The  name  staggered  me. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  it  before  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  they  sang  it  often  at  the  church  I  used 
to  attend  in  Vermont." 
'35 


"  But  tell  me  about  the  writer,  if  you  can. 
Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  young  woman  who  was  educated 
in  the  public  schools  there." 

"Do  you  mean  that  she  is  a  young  woman 
now  ? "  I  asked  eagerly. 

A  half-smile  played  about  her  mouth. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "she  is  a  young 
woman  now." 

Her  answer  would  have  satisfied  much  of  my 
curiosity,  if  her  manner  had  not  betrayed  that 
the  story  was  not  half  told. 

"  Do  you  know  her  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Yes,  pretty  well,"  she  answered  with  a 
smile. 

"  I  really  think  the  song  was  very  beautiful, 
and  I  want  to  hear  about  the  writer.  Won't 
you  tell  me  about  her  ?  Judging  from  your  face, 
I  am  inclined  to  think  that  there  is  some  mys- 
tery. Years  ago,  I  knew  a  young  woman  of 
that  name  ;  and  I  am  naturally  interested  to  hear 
of  this  other  one." 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell.      I  wrote  the 
song,  and  I  signed  it  by  my  two  middle  names. 
136 


My  mother  liked  the  name  Ruth,  and  my  father 
wanted  me  to  keep  my  mother's  full  name ;  so 
I  was  named  Ruth  Agnes  Wentworth." 

"  Agnes  Wentworth  !  Where  did  your 
mother  live  ?  "  I  asked  almost  breathlessly. 

"Highbank,  Vermont." 

We  were  crossing  a  bridge  over  a  brook 
which  ran  through  the  town.  I  stopped  and 
leaned  forward  over  the  rail,  looking  into  the 
water.  I  needed  time  to  get  my  thoughts  to- 
gether. We  had  often  stopped  at  the  bridge 
before,  and  she  thought  nothing  of  my  abrupt- 
ness. She  followed  my  example. 

"  You  never  mentioned  Highbank  before," 
I  said. 

"  Have  n't  I  ?  I  have  often  spoken  of  the 
place,  though  perhaps  not  by  name." 

"  Oh,  I  see.  You  always  said  '  in  Vermont.' 
Do  you  know  when  your  mother  was  born  ? " 

"In  eighteen  thirty." 

There  was  no  further  doubt.  The  morn- 
ing's happiness  was  complete  ;  't  was  overflow- 
ing, so  that  I  dared  not  look  at  her.  On  the 
night  of  the  symphony  concert,  I  had  put  down 
137 


the  dream  that  the  new  face  was  the  old  face 
come  back  to  earth  and  to  me  ;  yet  it  was  true. 
The  old  face,  the  old  voice,  the  old  greatness  of 
soul,  had  been  repeated  from  the  mother  in  the 
child  to  cheer  my  last  years ;  and  the  old  love 
in  my  heart  had  gone  forth  to  meet  them. 

Ruth  seemed  to  respect  my  revery ;  but  at 
last  she  broke  the  silence  :  — 

"  You  seem  much  interested  in  Highbank  ; 
do  you  know  the  town  ?  " 

"  I  lived  there  many  years  ;  I  went  to  school 
there." 

"  Did  you  know  my  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  seems  incredible  that  you  are  her 
daughter.  You  are  much  like  her,  almost  the 
image  of  her  as  she  was  forty  years  ago  ;  but  I 
thought  I  knew  all  about  her  family.  I  did  not 
know  she  had  a  daughter  so  much  younger  than 
herself;  I  thought  your  sister  Kate  your  mother's 
youngest  child." 

"  She  was  while  she  lived.  I  was  born  two 
years  after  Kate  died." 

"  I  was  away  from  Highbank  all  those  years ; 
and  though  I  knew  when  Kate  died,  I  never 
138 


heard  of  you."  I  did  not  tell  her  that  for  years 
I  kept  trace  of  all  the  happenings  in  her  mother's 
life  ;  and  then,  finding  that  my  heart,  instead  of 
healing,  only  grew  sorer,  I  heard  only  such  news 
as  chanced  to  come  to  me.  "  Have  you  any 
relatives  in  Highbank  now  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Arthur  Thomas  is  my  mother's 
youngest  sister.  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  never  knew  that  she  was  a  Miss 
Wentworth.  By  the  way,  were  you  staying 
with  her  nine  years  ago  this  winter  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  you  are  the  Ruth  who  gave  the  little 
shivering  negro  boy  a  sled-ride,  and  lent  him  a 
muff.  Do  you  remember  it  ?  " 

"  I  remember  it  chiefly  because  a  gentleman 
came  to  the  house  that  evening  to  see  Uncle 
Arthur,  and  spoke  kindly  about  it.  Are  you  the 
gentleman  ? " 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know  that  though  you  have 
been  here  but  six  months  or  so,  I  owe  to  you 
much  of  the  pleasure  that  I  have  had  in  Mada- 
wanipee  during  the  seven  or  eight  years  that  I 
have  been  here  ?  " 

139 


"How  can  that  be?" 

"  When  I  saw  you  at  Highbank,  I  discovered 
how  interesting  some  children  can  be.  I  won- 
dered afterward  whether  others  would  not  be 
interesting  if  I  could  only  get  to  know  them.  I 
immediately  set  to  work  to  find  out.  I  picked 
up  acquaintance  with  a  good  many  children  here, 
and  have  found  in  their  freshness  and  heartiness 
both  moral  and  intellectual  help." 

As  I  spoke,  I  wondered  whether  every  beau- 
tiful thing  in  my  life  had  not  come  through 
either  Agnes  or  Ruth.  I  fell  into  revery,  —  such 
revery  as  one  falls  into  during  perfect  happiness 
and  in  perfect  companionship.  For  several  mo- 
ments neither  of  us  spoke. 

"I  am  going  to  Highbank  this  week,"  she 
said  meditatively.  "  I  doubt  whether  I  come 
back  here  at  all.  Mr.  Loring  is  coming  Tues- 
day, and  Mrs.  Loring  does  not  need  my  company 
any  longer." 

I  did  not  realize  just  what  she  had  said.  I 
only  knew  that  now,  just  as  she  was  more  to 
me  than  ever  before,  more  than  I  had  dreamed 
that  she  could  ever  be,  she  told  me  that  she  was 

to  drop  out  of  my  life. 

140 


Quick  as  the  impulse,  I  cried  out. 

"  Oh,  my  Ruth,  I  can't  let  you  go  now  !  " 

She  turned  suddenly  to  look  at  me.  I  had 
never  seen  her  much  moved  before.  Her  face 
had  lost  its  light ;  for  once  I  saw  it  without  sym- 
pathy. She  looked  at  me  without  seeming  to 
see  me.  She  looked  dazed,  as  if  she  had  just 
seen  some  awful  thing,  and  was  trying  to  grasp 
the  idea  of  it.  In  a  moment  or  two  her  face 
cleared ;  the  light  of  sympathy  came  back. 
Without  speaking,  she  looked  at  me  kindly, 
wonderingly,  almost  pityingly. 

"  Pardon  me,"  I  pleaded ;  "  I  spoke  on  im- 
pulse. You  cannot  know  how  much  of  new 
life  you  have  brought  me,  how  much  of  new 
faith,  of  new  aspiration ;  for  even  an  old  man 
may  have  his  aspirations.  To  all  that  you  had 
done  for  me  you  just  added  the  vivid  memory, 
I  may  almost  say  the  representation,  of  what  is 
dearest  to  me  in  Highbank,  —  young  manhood 
and  womanhood  there ;  and  it  was  you  who 
opened  my  eyes  to  know  fondness  for  children, 
—  perhaps  the  greatest  pleasure  of  my  last  eight 
years.  Now  you  tell  me  that  you  are  about  to 
141 


go  away ;  so  I  cried  out  impulsively  that  I  could 
not  let  you.  Forgive  me  !  " 

Her  face  brightened.  Doubtless  her  thought 
was  different  from  mine,  but  I  could  not  feel 
despondent  when  I  saw  brightness  in  her  face. 
I  was  almost  willing  to  trust  my  moods  to  her. 
I  felt  that  if  I  had  reason  to  be  despondent  her 
keen  sympathy  would  know  it.  Even  before 
she  spoke,  I  knew  that  there  must  be  hope 
for  me. 

"  But  you  go  to  Highbank  sometimes  ;  and 
there  you  see  all  the  old  scenes,  and  won't  need 
me  to  represent  them.  And,  besides,  you  will 
come  to  see  me  at  my  uncle's  ;  and  perhaps  we 
can  take  some  walks  or  rides  as  we  have  done 
here,  and  you  can  show  me  your  favorite  bits 
of  Nature.  You  will  tell  me  about  my  mother 
as  a  girl,  too,  so  far  as  you  knew  anything  about 
her." 


142 


X. 

ON  the  afternoon  before  Ruth's  departure 
from  Madawanipee,  I  called  upon  her. 
Though  we  had  been  together  so  much,  or  per- 
haps because  we  had  been  together  so  much,  I 
had  never  called  upon  her  before.  I  smiled  at 
the  thought  of  an  old  man  like  myself  making 
a  formal  call  upon  a  young  girl.  I  had  never 
been  much  given  to  calling ;  and  as  the  years 
went  on,  I  became  more  and  more  averse  to  it. 
The  sensation  was  almost  new.  As  I  left 
home,  I  thought  of  my  first  call  as  a  young  man 
in  Highbank.  I  smiled  at  my  youthful  terror 
lest  my  long  legs,  my  hat,  my  gloves,  and  my 
arms  should  not  distribute  themselves  in  due 
form  about  my  corner  of  the  room.  It  had 
seemed  so  presumptuous  to  take  off  my  overcoat, 
as  if  I  were  an  expected  guest,  that  in  spite  of 
warnings  from  all  the  authorities  I  respected,  I 
had  worn  it  into  the  parlor.  Somehow  we  never 
143 


do  a  thing  easily  until  we  have  done  it  often,  or 
unless  we  have  seen  so  much  of  the  world  that 
the  mere  doing  of  new  things  has  become  an  old 
story.  To  my  bashfulness,  everything  new  was 
awful  to  contemplate  just  because  it  was  new. 

As  I  approached  Mrs.  Loring's  house,  I  felt 
much  as  if  I  were  going  to  my  own  funeral. 
Certainly  a  part  of  me  was  to  be  buried ;  and 
there  was  to  be  nothing  picturesque  in  it,  as 
there  had  been  in  the  funeral  of  myself  which 
I  had  once  dreamed  about.  Yet  even  this  cere- 
mony had  one  bright  feature,  — I  was  expected. 
When  the  bell  rang  at  sharp  three  o'clock,  Ruth 
would  know  that  it  was  I.  For  the  day,  at  least, 
I  was  to  hold  a  place  in  her  thoughts  strictly  my 
own.  I  felt  a  bit  of  pride  that  I  was  a  person 
of  so  much  importance  that  the  much-sought 
Miss  Appleton  wished  me  to  come  to  her  by 
appointment.  Even  sorrow,  unless  it  has  become 
almost  despair,  cannot  bury  our  vanity. 

At  my  entrance,  she  laid  down  a  notebook, 
which  apparently  she  had  been  studying. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come,"  she 
said. 

144 


"I  try  always  to  be  good  to  myself,"  I 
answered. 

"  And  to  other  people  ?  " 

"  Some  other  people." 

"  I  hope  you  number  me  among  them.  If 
you  do,  I  shall  ask  lots  of  things  of  you.  Do  you 
want  my  parting  instructions  ?  " 

"  Surely.  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  leave 
even  so  much  of  yourself  behind." 

"  But  they  are  not  myself,  you  know ;  they 
have  chiefly  to  do  with  other  people." 

"  I  can  hardly  fancy  your  giving  instructions 
which  are  not  parts  of  yourself.  You  put  your- 
self into  all  you  do ;  so  I  shall  find  you  in  what- 
ever you  are  so  good  as  to  leave  for  me  to  do." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  leave  you  much ;  but  you 
have  kindly  helped  me  in  so  many  things  which 
I  have  tried  to  do  that  I  have  taken  it  for  granted 
that  you  will  keep  up  your  part  of  them  after 
my  part  stops." 

This  little  speech  was  the  pleasantest  thing 

that  I  had  ever  heard  her  say,  and  I  cannot  help 

putting  it  down  in  black  and  white  to  stand  to 

my  credit  after  I  am  gone.    I  had  not  only  helped 

'45 


her,  as  it  was  my  one  eager  joy  to  do,  but  I  had 
done  my  part  so  well  that  she  did  not  know  that 
it  was  chiefly  for  her  sake  that  I  did  it. 

"I  believe  Frank  Murphy  at  the  jail,"  she 
continued,  "is  in  a  fair  way  to  become  a  man 
at  last,  after  all  these  years  of  mere  animal  life  ; 
and  his  friend  who  spoke  to  you  the  day  you 
went  with  me  seems  to  have  a  good  deal  of  pur- 
pose, and  of  grit,  as  well.  Won't  you  go  to  see 
them,  to  keep  up  their  courage,  sometimes  ?  " 

"  Most  gladly ;  but  will  they  see  me,  and 
keep  up  my  courage  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Won't  they  be  so  lonesome  at  losing  you 
that  they  will  only  despise  a  man  like  me  for  a 
friend  ? " 

"  Of  course  not.  What  they  want  is  sym- 
pathy, —  not  pity  or  patronage,  but  a  sense  that 
somebody  wants  them  to  succeed  in  getting  upon 
a  new  plane,  believes  that  they  will  succeed,  and 
will  give  them  a  hand  of  friendship  and  encour- 
agement now  and  then.  You  can  do  that." 

"  I  can  do  all  you  say,  but  I  can't  make 
them  feel  that  I  do  it.  I  can't  make  them  feel 
146 


my  sympathy  as  you  do ;  and,  besides,  I  fear 
that  I  have  n't  so  much.  You  don't  know  the 
power  you  have  for  doing  good  in  the  world. 
You  must  not  suspect  that  every  one  can  do  what 
you  can.  You  can't  realize  that  to  the  ordinary 
mortal  you  seem  like  a  being  from  another  world, 
—  all  sympathy,  all  kindness,  all  hopefulness,  all 
purity,  all  graciousness.  You  can  do  more  good 
by  your  mere  temporary  presence  among  peo- 
ple than  I  could  do,  even  though  I  were  a  woman 
myself,  in  a  score  of  visits.  Pardon  me  for 
speaking  so  plainly,  —  I  'm  a  blunt  old  man, 
you  know,  —  but  I  don't  want  you  to  let  your 
power  go  unused  through  ignorance.  You  have 
infinitely  more  of  all  that  makes  noble  woman- 
hood an  inspiration  than  any  other  woman  I 
know.  So  don't  expect  too  much  from  me,  in 
the  way  of  accomplishment,  at  least ;  you  can't 
expect  too  much  in  the  way  of  endeavor,  for  I  '11 
try  anything  you  ask." 

"  Now  you  make  me  feel  uncomfortable," 
she  said,  with  a  puzzling  smile.  "  I  feel  that 
I  have  either  been  deceiving  you  on  the  one 
hand,  or  if  not,  that  I  have  been  a  '  wicked  and 


slothful  servant.'  But  never  mind  ;  I  'm  going 
to  leave  another  bit  of  work  for  you,  if  you  '11 
take  it." 

"  Certainly  I  shall.  But  again  I  must  warn 
you  not  to  expect  too  much ;  for  I  still  insist  that 
you  have  a  power  that  few  in  the  world  can 
have  to  help  people.  Neither,  I  think,  have 
you  neglected  your  opportunities.  If  you  should 
do  nothing  for  your  own  development  by  such 
a  broad  life  as  you  are  leading,  you  would  soon 
lose  that  power.  The  first  requisite  for  such 
power  is  a  broad  field  of  personal  interests.  So 
please  don't  think  I  was  asking  you  to  lose 
yourself  in  work  for  others  ;  I  only  wanted  to 
remind  you  that  because  of  your  own  self-care 
you  have  so  much  more  power  to  care  for 
others." 

"  It 's  very  kind  of  you  to  encourage  me  so ; 
but  in  spite  of  what  you  say  I  shall  expect  more 
from  you  than  I  have  myself  accomplished.  The 
second  case  is  a  telegraph  messenger  boy,  Johnny 
Hardy.  He  has  the  making  of  a  strong  man  in 
him.  I  have  been  helping  him  to  pick  up 
something  of  an  education  during  his  spare  time. 
148 


Will  you  help  him  in  the  same  way  after  I  have 
gone?" 

"  He  won't  want  me.  He  will  think  it  a 
bore  to  come  to  see  me  and  seek  for  help.  He 
will  think  me  an  old  fogy ;  and  after  two  or 
three  trials  he  will  stop  coming.  But  I  can  tell 
you  whom  he  will  like  as  a  guide  ;  that 's  my 
nephew,  Harry  Templeman.  He  has  taken  a 
good  deal  of  interest  in  Johnny  already,  espe- 
cially of  late  ;  and  Johnny  likes  him.  Let  me 
send  him  around  to  see  you  this  evening,  so  that 
you  can  instruct  him  in  his  duties.  He  will 
be  overjoyed  to  take,  in  any  fashion,  your 
place." 

"I  fear  he  would  spoil  Johnny.  I  don't 
mean  do  him  harm  ;  but  I  fear  that  he  would 
not  keep  him  up  to  the  mark.  Johnny  has  told 
me  something  of  their  sudden  friendship,  —  if  I 
may  call  so  unequal  a  thing  a  friendship  ;  and, 
if  I  may  speak  so  freely  of  your  nephew,  I  begin 
to  suspect  the  genuineness  of  it  all .  Your  nephew 
is  n't  conscious  of  the  reasons  for  his  sudden  in- 
terest in  Johnny  ;  and  I  fear  that  he  will  dis- 
cover them  by  and  by,  and  will  then  regret  the 
149 


bargain  he  makes  with  me.  So  I  should  prefer 
that  you  would  take  my  place." 

"  But,  pray,  how  do  you  know  so  much 
about  my  nephew's  motives,  —  more  than  he 
does  ?  " 

"  Women  often  see  things  that  men  do  not 
see.  Men  must  reason  a  thing  out,  and  so  must 
have  well-verified  premises  and  other  equipments 
of  logic.  Women  just  see.  To  be  sure,  many, 
perhaps  most  of  them,  often  see  what  is  n't 
there  to  be  seen,  just  as  most  men  often  reason 
wrongly  ;  but  many  of  them  see  truly." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  this  mystery  of 
Harry's  attitude  toward  Johnny." 

"  But  I  'm  not  likely  to  tell  you,"  she 
laughed.  "  He  may  tell  you  himself,  when  he 
discovers  it." 

"  Then  I  must  help  him  discover  it." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  that  would  never  do.  You  would 
surely  betray  how  your  curiosity  was  excited ; 
and  that  would  involve  me.  Imagine  the  posi- 
tion you  would  put  me  in  by  letting  him  know 
that  I  thought  I  understood  him  better  than  he 
understands  himself!  So  you  will  please  say 
150 


nothing  about  it  to  him,  and  take  Johnny  under 
your  own  supervision.  He  has  no  relatives  here, 
and  needs  supervision." 

She  was  sitting  in  a  large  easy-chair,  leaning 
well  back,  with  her  feet  half  stretched  out  before 
her.  Her  cheek  rested  against  the  back  of  her 
chair,  as  her  deep  blue  eyes  looked  at  me.  She 
was  clothed  —  but  I  never  can  describe  a 
woman's  dress.  Yet  one  thing  always  impressed 
me  :  other  women  looked  as  if  they  had  clothes 
made,  and  then  somehow  got  inside  of  them ; 
her  clothes  seemed  so  distinctly  to  belong  to  her 
that  one  could  not  think  of  them  as  existing  by 
themselves.  With  her  a  change  of  gown  was  like 
a  change  of  expression,  or  of  color,  or  of  mood. 
Clothing  seemed  never  to  add  or  take  away  or 
alter  her.  In  all  garbs  she  was  just  herself. 

Her  arm,  with  its  long  firm  hand,  lay 
stretched  out  on  the  table  at  her  side.  Her  fin- 
gers were  toying  with  a  new  book  on  Plato. 
She  seemed  to  me  an  embodiment  in  repose  of 
all  that  was  beautiful  in  life.  There  was  about 
her  a  sense  of  power  that  prepared  one  for  any 
accomplishment  when  activity  began  again. 


Before  her,  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  stood  a 
piano,  covered  with  music,  —  Wagner,  Chopin, 
Beethoven,  Haydn,  Bach.  Photographs  of  a 
few  of  the  world's  masterpieces  of  painting  were 
upon  the  walls,  and  half-a-dozen  casts  stood 
about  the  room. 

The  world's  treasures  of  highest  thought,  in 
all  lines  of  manifestation,  were  open  to  her,  and 
she  knew  how  to  use  them.  Had  she  chosen, 
her  beauty,  shining  out  of  her  heart  into  her 
face,  could  command  admirers  anywhere.  Yet 
she  was  unconscious  of  everything  but  the  little 
ragamuffin  in  the  street,  Johnny  Hardy,  telegraph 
messenger  No.  3. 

She  left  me  for  a  moment  to  get  a  few  memo- 
randa connected  with  the  work  which  she  was 
to  leave  to  me.  While  she  was  gone,  the  little 
girl  who  had  flirted  with  me  in  church,  and 
had  asked  in  the  garden  for  the  "  birdie  song," 
strayed  into  the  room.  When  she  saw  me,  she 
started  to  withdraw ;  but  I  coaxed  her  back. 
She  seemed  half  to  remember  me.  She  had  a 
pencil  and  paper  in  one  hand  and  a  sketch-book 
in  the  other. 

15* 


"  Do  you  draw  pictures  ?  "  I  asked. 

«' Yeth  'm  ;  Wuth  ith  learnin'  me." 

"  Do  you  draw  pictures  in  the  big  book  ?  " 

"  No  'm.  Wuth  dwaws  in  it,  an'  'en  I  twy 
to  dwaw  the  thame  fing  on  a  paper." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  see  what  you  've  done  ? " 

She  approached  timidly  at  first,  but  courage 
soon  came. 

"  I  did  it  all  mythelf,  an'  Wuth  did  n't  do 
none." 

She  showed  me  a  picture  of  a  very  rickety 
table.  Perhaps  with  the  aid  of  a  little  stiffening 
it  would  make  a  capital  clothes-horse. 

"  Here  ith  what  Wuth  did,"  she  explained, 
handing  me  the  sketch-book. 

"  Oh,  I  '11  let  you  thee  a  funny  picture  that 
Wuth  made  the  other  day  about  thpillin'  thum 
water." 

She  turned  the  pages  clumsily,  and  finally 
showed  me  myself  drenched  with  water,  while 
Ruth  and  my  friend  Cobb  were  holding  their 
sides  with  laughter.  The  likenesses  were  ex- 
cellent. But  I  was  more  interested  in  the  sketch 
on  the  opposite  page.  It  pictured  me  of  gigantic 
'S3 


stature,  with  a  group  of  thin-faced,  flat-chested, 
slim-limbed  dwarfs  looking  up  at  me.  My  pic- 
ture was  drawn  in  ink  ;  but  the  others  were  done 
in  pencil,  as  if  by  after-thought. 

The  child  saw  what  I  was  looking  at. 

"  The  big  man  ith  a  good  man  ;  an'  the  other 
men  want  to  be  good  like  him  tho  they  can  be 
big  like  him." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Becauth  Wuth  tol'  me  the  little  men  wanted 
to  be  big  like  the  big  man,  but  could  n't  unleth 
they  did  like  he  did.  Wuth  dwew  the  little 
men  one  day  jus'  for  me." 

"  You  '11  be  a  big  man  some  day,  won't  you  ? " 

"  No  'm,"  she  answered  eagerly,  and  with 
snapping  eyes  ;  "  I  'm  goin'  to  be  a  big  woman." 

"Is  that  better  than  being  a  big  man? " 

*'  Courth  !  It  ith  better  than  anyfing  elth  in 
the  world;  Wuth  tol'  me  tho." 

Though  Ruth  came  in  while  I  was  looking 
at  the  sketch-book,  she  made  no  comment ;  but 
the  sketch  and  all  it  meant  to  me  remained  fresh 
in  memory.  A  man  does  n't  forget  that  sort  of 
tribute,  off-hand  though  it  be. 
'54 


Before  I  went,  I  chanced  to  comment  upon 
the  volume  of  Plato  with  which  she  was  toying, 
and  our  conversation  turned  to  her  reading  of 
philosophy.  I  had  never  suspected  the  variety 
of  her  interests. 

"  Do  you  care  much  for  philosophy? "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  try  to  read  more  or  less  in  it ;  but 
the  field  is  so  enormous,  and  one's  time  is  so 
limited!" 

"  I  did  n't  suppose  women  cared  much  for 
that  sort  of  thing.  Woman's  field  is  intuition, 
not  logic." 

"  You  talk  as  if  they  were  incompatible,"  she 
answered,  with  an  amused  smile. 

"  They  seldom  or  never  go  together." 

"  What  heresy  you  talk !  They  're  like  man 
and  wife." 

"  Yes ;  he 's  the  logic,  and  she 's  the 
intuition." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  shall  have  to  change  my  fig- 
ure. They  're  like  mountain-trail  and  carriage- 
road  ;  the  trail  is  shorter  and  more  interesting, 
but  the  carriage-road  is  more  dignified,  —  and 
safer." 


"  I  suppose  in  your  philosophy  you  always 
take  the  short  cut." 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  generally  go  back  and  make  the 
trip  over  again  by  the  road.  I  like  to  see  how 
stupid  and  slow  and  dull  you  men  can  be.  I 
could  cut  straighter  roads  myself  sometimes,  and 
perfectly  safe  ones,  too." 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  believe  you.  I 
have  seen  evidence  enough  of  it  myself;  but  you 
are  the  first  woman  I  ever  knew,  I  think," — I 
had  to  add  "  I  think,"  for  I  could  not  grant  her 
unqualified  superiority  to  Agnes  even  in  this,  — 
"  who  added  to  a  wonderful  intuition  a  head 
for  logic. 

"  To-day  is  a  proper  time  for  philosophy," 
I  continued,  as  I  rose  to  go,  "  for  I  am  sadly  in 
need  of  it.  What  word  has  your  philosophy 
for  one  who  is  fated  to  be  wofully  lonesome,  as 
I  shall  be  after  you  have  gone  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  answered,  smiling  sym- 
pathetically, "  that  it  can  only  say  that  you 
should  n't  bind  your  hopes  to  earthly  things." 

"  That 's  the  logical  part  of  your  philosophy. 
What  does  intuition  say  ? " 


"  It  says  that  if  you  are  lonesome  here,  you 
ought  to  go  back  to  your  old  home,  among  old 
friends,  in  Highbank." 

"  And  young  friends  ?  " 

"  I  was  n't  thinking  about  them,  —  very 
much,"  she  added  conscientiously . 

"  I  was.  I  suspect  that  if  I  return  there,  it 
will  be  because  they,  and  not  the  old  friends, 
draw  me." 

She  held  out  her  hand.  As  I  held  it,  and 
looked  into  her  eyes,  I  forgot  that  I  was  supposed 
to  go.  I  was  recalled  to  myself  by  feeling  her 
fingers  slipping  from  my  grasp. 

I  wonder  how,  when  I  reached  the  sidewalk, 
I  knew  which  way  to  turn. 


XI. 

I  HAD  chosen  the  afternoon  for  my  farewell 
with  Ruth,  because  she  was  going  to  a  musi- 
cale  in  the  evening,  and  I  could  not  be  satisfied 
with  the  few  moments  of  time  and  the  few 
words  of  commonplace  parting  which  we  could 
have  in  crowded  rooms. 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  however,  I  was 
unbearably  restless.  It  was  possible  that  I  might 
never  see  her  again ;  but  I  might  see  her  once 
more  now  if  I  would,  for  I  had  an  invitation 
to  the  musicale.  I  knew,  however,  that  there 
would  be  no  comfort  in  such  a  meeting. 

About  nine  o'clock,  I  closed  my  book  and 
went  out  for  a  short  walk.  Half-unconsciously, 
like  a  business  man  who  finds  himself  on  a  holi- 
day wandering  toward  his  office,  I  turned  my 
steps  toward  the  house  of  Mrs.  Pembroke,  the 
giver  of  the  musicale.  When  I  reached  there, 
I  told  myself  that,  since  I  had  been  invited,  I 
158 


had  the  privilege  of  taking  all  I  could  get  of 
the  entertainment ;  but  I  would  not  go  in.  I 
compromised  by  walking  about  the  house  several 
times.  The  windows  were  open,  and  the  cur- 
tains were  up.  For  a  solace  to  my  conscience, 
as  it  were,  I  fingered  my  invitation-card.  As 
I  passed  down  a  narrow  street  by  the  side,  I 
caught  a  glimpse  through  the  window  of  Ruth. 
She  was  standing,  talking  with  a  younger,  shorter 
girl.  Her  hair  was  arranged  —  no  ;  there  was 
no  arrangement  about  it ;  it  seemed  to  have 
grown  so.  It  parted  loosely,  falling  naturally  at 
either  side  of  the  brow,  —  a  natural  crown, 
more  glorious  than  any  that  goldsmith  ever  made. 
Her  gown  was  of  dark,  soft  silk,  with  a  tiny 
golden  figure.  It  was  trimmed  with  ribbon  of 
a  golden  yellow.  Strange  though  it  may  seem, 
that  vision  of  radiance  reconciled  me  for  all  time 
to  hideous  gowns.  If  it  were  a  part  of  the  code 
of  dress  that  none  but  radiantly  beautiful  women 
should  wear  bright,  dazzling  gowns,  not  even 
they  would  wear  them.  No  woman  would  dare 
to  challenge  criticism  by  declaring  by  her  dress 
that  she  thought  herself  beautiful.  So,  as  I 


looked  at  Ruth,  I  praised  the  women  who  have 
no  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things.  I  can  even 
look  with  complaisance  at  a  gown  which  makes 
a  plain  woman  hideous ;  I  realize  that  it  con- 
tributes its  mite  to  Ruth's  privilege  of  giving  our 
eyes  a  feast. 

The  girl  who  was  talking  to  her  seemed  un- 
conscious that  there  was  anything  in  the  world 
but  they  two,  for  Ruth's  whole  self  appeared 
intent  upon  the  other's  words.  In  her  clear, 
kindly  eye,  strong,  tender  mouth,  and  ready 
smile,  one  seemed  to  see  an  infinite  force,  eager 
in  sympathy.  The  face  of  the  other  girl,  as 
Ruth  looked  down  into  it,  was  transfigured.  I 
needed  no  better  proof  that  her  power  was  not 
a  figment  of  my  imagination  ;  others  felt  it  as 
well  as  I. 

While  I  was  watching,  opposite  the  window, 
I  heard  steps  approaching.  I  sauntered  slowly 
on,  taking  a  turn  around  the  square. 

When  I   reached  the   front  of  the  house, 

Ruth  was   near  a  window  on  that  side.     She 

was  talking  to  a  young  man  of  rather  unsavory 

reputation.     He  was  commonly  called  a  hand- 

160 


some  fellow,  and  was  very  popular,  apparently, 
with  the  girls  of  the  town.  I  had  watched  him 
often.  I  had  seen  him  look  hard  into  girls' 
faces  with  his  insinuating  smile,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  You  are  bound  to  be  interested  in  what 
I  say,  because  it  is  I  who  say  it."  I  had  seen 
him  look  hard,  almost  fiercely,  into  the  faces  of 
other  girls,  as  if  to  try  their  wills  against  his,  — 
as  if  to  dare  them  to  refuse  to  grant  him  a  favor. 
There  was  nothing  of  either  sort  in  his  face 
now.  He  seemed  to  know  that  he  was  with  a 
girl  who  was  to  be  neither  flattered  nor  fright- 
ened ;  yet  her  manner  was  as  I  had  always 
seen  it,  —  gracious,  sympathetic,  cordial.  He 
seemed  to  feel  that  her  sympathy  was  with  his 
better  self,  and  that  with  his  common  self  she 
had  nothing  to  do,  —  refused  to  have  anything 
to  do.  I  had  never  seen  his  face  so  manly 
before.  Her  mere  presence  was  enough  to 
bring  to  the  surface  the  best  in  him. 

Mrs.  Pembroke  had  been  kind-hearted  toward 

her  children,  and  had  allowed  the  older  ones  to 

stay  up  for  the  evening.    They  passed  through 

the  room,  and  Ruth  called  them  to  her.      Her 

161 


companion  soon  went  off,  and  they  arranged 
themselves  for  a  story.  The  youngest,  a  boy, 
sat  on  her  lap,  with  his  light  hair  resting  on  her 
shoulder ;  his  frank,  eager  eyes  were  upturned 
to  hers.  The  younger  girl,  dark-haired,  with 
rich,  rounded  features,  stood  on  a  footstool  at 
her  side.  The  older  girl,  with  flaxen  hair, 
clear-cut,  almost  thin  features,  sat  on  a  footstool 
at  her  knee,  and  with  elbows  resting  in  Ruth's 
lap  looked  up  into  her  face.  The  group  served 
well  to  show  Ruth's  beauty.  The  characteris- 
tics of  the  three  childish  faces  were  combined 
in  her  own,  —  the  frankness  and  eagerness 
of  the  boy,  the  richness  of  abounding  health 
and  spirits  of  the  younger  girl,  the  intellectual 
acuteness  and  spirituality  of  the  older.  Her 
face  had  in  it  a  wonderful  comprehensiveness,  a 
something  which  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  name, 
— a  something  indicative  of  a  peculiar  largeness 
of  nature. 

It  is  not  strange  that  as  I  watched  her,  realiz- 
ing always  that  in  a  few  hours  she  would  be 
gone,  perhaps  gone  out  of  my  life  forever,  I  felt 
that  everything  left  behind  was  small  and  mean. 
162 


I  dreaded  the  days  when  every  street-corner, 
every  road,  every  turn  of  the  stream,  would 
speak  eloquently  of  her,  and  no  one  would 
be  left  behind  to  inspire  new  hopes  and  new 
endeavors. 

A  few  drops  of  rain  brushed  my  cheek.  I 
hailed  them  eagerly.  It  had  been  clear  early  in 
the  evening,  and  I  knew  that  few  of  Mrs. 
Pembroke's  guests  would  be  prepared  for  rain. 
I  hurried  home,  and  returned  ready  for  service. 
But  the  weather  was  fitful ;  and  when  Ruth 
came  out,  with  Harry  at  her  side,  it  was  not 
raining.  Since  they  were  unprotected,  I  fol- 
lowed near  enough  to  reach  them  if  the  shower 
should  return,  but  beyond  the  sound  of  their 
voices.  At  Mrs.  Loring's  door,  Harry  left  her ; 
but  before  he  had  regained  the  street,  I  heard 
her  call  him  back. 

I  plodded  home  alone  in  the  dark  and  the  wet. 


163 


XII. 

EARLY  in  the  summer  I  betook  myself 
to  Highbank.  I  had  often  to  confess  to 
myself  that  the  new  interest  which  had  come 
into  my  life  was  not  easily  to  be  disposed  of. 
After  a  score  or  more  of  years  in  which  the 
society  of  none  had  been  indispensable  to  my 
happiness, — ay,  even  important, —  I  now  found 
myself  dependent  upon  this  young  girl.  At  first 
I  blamed  myself  for  this  dependence.  I  told 
myself  that  I  would  conquer  it.  It  seemed  so 
weak  and  undignified  to  wander  about  the  coun- 
try after  her  !  As  a  matter  of  moral  discipline, 
I  could  not  afford  to  yield  to  the  craving.  I 
soon  gave  up  that  high  ground ;  I  was  too  old 
to  need  training.  If  one  must  deny  oneself  even 
into  old  age,  when  is  to  come  unfettered  enjoy- 
ment ?  The  rest  of  my  life  would  be  too  short 
to  require  severe  discipline  ;  so  I  yielded. 
When  the  train  drew  into  Highbank,  about 
164 


nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  a  heavy  mist,  half 
rain,  half  fog,  enveloped  the  town.  Every  dis- 
tant object  was  magnified.  The  men  and  women 
wandering  about  the  platform  were  Titanic  in 
size.  Faces  were  indistinct ;  it  was  such  a  night 
that  in  war  men  might  take  friend  for  foe,  or  foe 
for  friend. 

While  I  stood  on  the  platform  trying  to  decide 
where  to  take  up  my  quarters,  I  heard  the  down 
train  whistling  around  the  curve  just  above  the 
station.  As  I  turned  to  watch  the  headlight 
stream  through  the  fog,  I  caught  sight  of  a  figure 
which  reminded  me  of  Ruth.  The  back  was 
toward  me ;  but  as  I  drew  nearer,  I  thought  I 
recognized  Ruth's  mackintosh  and  the  hat  which 
was  her  favorite  on  stormy  days.  Just  as  the 
engine  of  the  train  reached  the  end  of  the 
platform,  she  slipped.  She  tried  to  recover 
herself,  but  apparently  caught  her  foot  in  her 
gown,  and  fell  over  upon  the  track.  As  she  fell, 
her  face  turned  toward  me,  and  I  thought  I 
saw  Ruth's  eyes  looking  in  horror  at  the  ap- 
proaching light. 

I  fear  that  I  am  not  very  brave  nor  very 
165 


quick.  I  am  too  likely  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  people  who  get  into  difficulties  will  get  out 
alone  much  better  than  if  confused  by  the  prof- 
fer of  aid.  Yet  when  I  saw  Ruth  fall,  I  had 
no  such  prudential  thoughts.  It  seemed  as  if  it 
was  I  who  was  in  danger,  and  as  if  I  alone  could 
ward  it  off. 

I  dropped  my  luggage,  and  sprang  for  the 
track.  There  was  no  time  to  lift  or  even  drag 
her.  I  could  only  half  push,  half  roll  her  as  she 
attempted  to  regain  her  feet.  She  had  half 
risen ;  my  thrust  sent  her  prostrate  upon  the 
track  beyond.  I  saw  that  she  was  safe. 

The  next  that  I  knew  I  was  here  in  the 
hospital.  I  opened  my  eyes  as  from  a  long  but 
troubled  sleep,  and  looked  out  upon  the  house- 
tops. I  saw  the  dear  old  steeple,  into  the  belfry 
of  which  I  used  to  climb  when  a  boy,  and  I 
saw  the  clock-tower  of  the  High  School.  Then, 
from  the  relative  positions  of  those  landmarks, 
I  realized  where  I  was.  Soon  came  the  dim 
remembrance  of  an  on-rushing  railroad  train,  of 
Ruth's  danger,  of  my  sudden  spring,  her  second 
fall,  a  blow  ;  and  then  all  was  a  blank. 
166 


No  one  was  in  the  room,  and  I  could  satisfy 
myself  of  my  condition  only  by  making  a  per- 
sonal examination.  I  soon  found  that  not  all  of 
my  ribs  were  just  as  they  should  be,  and  one 
leg  lay  like  a  log.  Suddenly  I  felt  the  shock 
all  over  again,  and  lost  myself. 

When  I  again  awoke,  the  chair  at  my  side 
was  rocking  gently,  as  if  some  one  had  but  then 
left  it,  and  a  paper  was  lying  on  it.  I  picked 
up  the  paper,  and  read.  Among  the  items  was 
the  following :  — 

"  Last  evening  as  the  8.45  northern  train 
was  drawing  into  the  station,  Miss  Maggie 
Haggerty,  a  laundress  who  has  been  in  the  em- 
ploy of  James  Upton,  slipped  upon  a  banana- 
peel,  and  fell  upon  the  track.  An  elderly 
gentleman,  apparently  a  stranger  in  town,  ran  to 
her  assistance,  and  pushed  her  from  the  track, 
but  could  not  make  his  own  escape.  He  was 
struck  by  the  pilot  of  the  approaching  train,  and 
thrown  several  yards.  He  was  taken  to  the 
Highbank  hospital.  Several  of  his  ribs  were 
broken,  and  it  is  feared  that  he  is  suffering  from 
severe  internal  injuries.  He  was  still  uncon- 
167 


scious  at  one  o'clock  this  morning.  Letters  and 
papers  found  on  his  clothing  make  it  clear  that 
his  name  is  Alfred  Robertson,  but  his  residence 
is  unknown." 

The  paper  bore  date  July  23.  On  a  calen- 
dar which  hung  on  the  wall  opposite,  all  the 
days  of  the  month  up  to  the  twenty-sixth  had 
been  crossed  with  a  lead  pencil.  I  had  appar- 
ently been  unconscious  nearly  four  days,  for  the 
sun  was  now  low. 

As  soon  as  I  had  rested  from  the  reading,  I 
re-read  the  notice.  Fortunate  Maggie  Haggerty ! 
How  little  you  know  by  how  slight  a  thread 
your  life  hung  !  The  dimming  mist  saved  you. 
I  fear,  and  it  shames  me  to  confess  it,  that,  if  I 
had  not  mistaken  you  for  Ruth,  my  policy  of 
non-interference  would  have  prevailed.  Your 
life  would  have  paid. 


168 


XIII. 

AS  I  have  lain  quietly  here  in  the  hospital, 
I  have  wondered  that  I  ever  called  a 
hospital  a  place  of  horrors,  or  even  a  place  of 
shadows,  —  a  place  to  shrink  from.  As  a  boy, 
the  mere  approach  to  the  building  seemed  to  me 
an  intense  but  tenderly  given  "  Hush !  "  from 
some  sad-eyed  watcher.  Pain  and  deformity 
and  death  lived  here.  My  imagination  felt  the 
surgeon's  knife,  the  cripple's  want  of  power, 
the  awfulness  of  the  presence  of  death.  In  my 
childish  thought,  the  activity  of  the  body  was 
the  larger  part  of  life.  I  felt  that  I  could  never 
be  maimed,  or  even  seriously  ill ;  I  should  not 
be  I,  if  my  body  had  lost  any  of  its  powers.  I 
had  been  told  that  to  lose  the  power  to  think 
was  to  lose  identity.  It  must  be  equally  true 
that  a  boy  who  could  not  play  ball  and  run 
and  skate  and  jump  could  not  be  I.  Uncanny 
indeed  was  the  place  where  identity  and  even 
life  might  be  lost. 

169 


One  day  I  wondered  how  great  were  the 
ills  that  people  bore  here.  I  distrusted  the 
strength  of  my  imagination.  I  drew  a  pin  from 
the  corner  of  my  waistcoat,  and  pressed  it 
against  my  arm.  I  shut  my  teeth  hard,  and 
clenched  my  hand.  I  pressed  the  pin  harder 
and  harder,  until  an  involuntary  sigh  escaped 
me,  and  then  I  threw  it  from  me.  The  next 
moment  I  pitied  myself  for  my  weakness.  Yet 
when  I  looked  at  my  arm  and  saw  the  puncture 
tinged  with  blood,  I  dreaded  to  repeat  the  ex- 
periment. Did  I  fear  the  pain,  or  did  I  fear  to 
maltreat  and  deface  my  own  body  ?  I  never 
knew  ;  for  to  me  every  scar  and  deformity,  even 
the  slightest,  was  uncanny.  When  I  looked  up 
at  the  hospital  windows,  my  imagination  had 
been  strengthened.  I  knew  that  heroes  lived 
there  ;  and  then  a  new  wonder  and  a  new  terror 
seized  me.  I  did  not  know  how  many  people 
were  within,  but  I  knew  that  hundreds  had 
been  there.  Were  heroes  so  common  ?  Oh,  if 
not,  if  some  who  entered  there  were  not  heroes, 
how  terrible  a  thing  was  life  ! 

I  wandered  slowly  away  to  the  edge  of  the 
170 


hill,  and  looked  far  out  over  the  valleys  and  the 
low-lying  hills  to  the  mountains.  They  had 
stood  for  centuries  noble  and  untroubled.  Should 
man,  who  was  greater  even  than  the  mountains, 
live  in  fear  of  suffering  ?  Then  came  the 
thought  that  drove  away  forever  the  shadows 
hovering  over  the  building.  The  world  was 
not  full  of  heroes,  nor  yet  was  life  a  terrible 
thing ;  the  suffering  could  make  us  heroes.  The 
evil  not  only  carried  its  own  cure,  but  left  a 
blessing  behind.  From  that  day,  the  hospital 
was  a  place  where  heroes  were  made;  it  was 
horrible  only  for  those  who  proved  to  have 
nothing  even  of  the  making  of  heroes  in  them. 
Now  I  am  here.  How  changed  my  ideas 
of  the  place  since  I  was  a  boy !  When  I  go 
out,  if  I  ever  do,  I  shall  be  a  cripple.  I  shall 
walk  no  more.  Yet  I  smile  when  I  think  of 
the  old  fancy  that  to  become  a  cripple  is  to  lose 
identity.  To  be  sure,  there  is  much  in  the  hos- 
pital methods  that  makes  one  wonder  whether 
one  is  one's  self;  but  it  is  rather  amusing  than 
otherwise.  They  have  ticketed  my  bed  with 
my  name,  address,  ailment,  treatment,  and  the 
171 


like,  as  if  I  were  already  but  a  thing,  unable  to 
identify  itself.  George  Talcott,  an  old  school- 
mate whom  I  came  to  see  here  occasionally, 
used  to  say  that  he  felt  already  labelled  for  the 
other  world:  he  wondered  only  that  his  sins 
had  not  been  enumerated  on  the  tag  for  Saint 
Peter's  benefit.  As  he  had  always  lived  in  a 
family,  he  felt  here  the  lack  of  personal  interest 
to  which  he  had  been  accustomed.  He  felt 
himself  converted  into  a  machine.  Yet  I  find 
that  I  rather  like  this  mechanical  method :  it 
seems  to  emphasize  the  comparative  insignifi- 
cance of  the  physical  body.  One  realizes,  per- 
haps for  the  first  time,  how  little  one  is  depend- 
ent upon  it. 

I  hear  the  roll  of  wheels  on  the  way  to  the 
operating-room  ;  I  hear  the  clink  of  bottles,  the 
hurrying  of  nurses,  the  anxious  voices  of  in- 
quiring friends ;  I  hear  a  nurse  laughing  and 
chatting  in  the  hall ;  I  hear  the  prattle  of  chil- 
dren's voices  from  another  ward;  I  hear  the 
tread  of  burdened  steps  from  the  ambulance  to 
the  outer  door,  and  even  as  the  stretcher  passes 
my  room  I  hear  a  doctor's  laugh.  What  does 
17* 


it  all  mean  ?  Suffering  is  here,  gayety  is  there  ; 
but  something  greater  than  either  is  everywhere. 
Ask  the  man  who  has  just  been  brought  from 
the  ambulance  what  is  oftenest  in  his  mind. 
It  is  not  the  pain  which  he  has  borne,  nor 
that  which  he  has  yet  to  bear :  it  is  the  wife 
who  is  anxious  for  him,  and  the  child  who 
shudders  at  the  thought  of  what  has  befallen 
him ;  it  is  the  loss  of  time  and  money  which 
this  accident  entails,  —  time  and  money  which 
should  have  gone  to  ease  the  wife's  labors,  to 
educate  the  child,  to  make  home  brighter.  Ask 
the  child  whose  laugh  I  heard  why  she  laughed. 
It  was  not  relief  from  pain,  or  the  thought  of 
escaping  from  a  dreary  hospital:  it  was  the 
thought  of  home,  of  loving  ones  ;  or  it  was  the 
pleasant  word  of  some  passer-by,  or  a  deed  of 
some  true-hearted  child  in  story.  Go  the  rounds, 
if  you  will ;  you  will  find  life  not  much  differ- 
ent here  from  what  it  is  elsewhere.  It  is  a 
little  more  intense,  only,  because  the  chances 
which  befall  the  body  here  influence  so  power- 
fully human  relationships.  Our  thoughts,  our 
aims,  our  aspirations,  our  courage,  our  strength, 
173 


our  affections,  —  which  are  our  real  selves,  — 
hospitals  cannot  mar ;  rather,  hospitals  help 
them. 

I  hope  that  I  am  not  too  optimistic.  I  hope 
that  I  have  said  not  only  what  might  be,  but 
what  is,  true.  Perhaps  I  am  prejudiced ;  I  have 
had  so  full  a  life,  even  in  this  confinement,  that 
I  suspect  that  others  have  fared  in  the  same 
way.  But  why  should  I?  Others  have  no 
Ruth! 

One  morning,  a  week  after  the  accident,  I  was 
lying  listlessly  with  my  face  toward  the  open 
door.  A  whispered  consultation  was  holding 
just  out  of  sight  in  the  corridor. 

"  Then  there  is  no  immediate  danger,  and  he 
can  stand  seeing  people  ?  " 

"Yes.  The  danger  that  we  fear  may  not 
manifest  itself  for  a  month  yet." 

In  a  moment  Ruth  entered  my  room. 

"You  are  a  naughty  man,"  she  exclaimed, 
with  one  of  the  smiles  which  I  had  been  for 
weeks  longing  to  see.  "  You  said  you  would 
come  to  see  me  when  you  came  to  Highbank. 
You  have  been  in  town  almost  two  weeks,  and 


haven't  been  to  see  me  yet.  Aren't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself?  You  see  I  won't  let  you 
free  from  your  bargain,  and  so  I  have  come  to 
see  you,  instead." 

She  held  my  hand  while  she  spoke. 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  very  much  ashamed  of  myself, 
but  I  am  not  without  my  excuse.  Do  you  re- 
member once  saying  that  you  always  had  an 
uncomfortable  sensation  on  looking  at  broken 
things,  —  shattered  crockery,  broken  fences, 
tumbled-down  houses,  abandoned,  broken-ribbed 
vessels  ?  You  could  hardly  expect  an  aban- 
doned, broken-ribbed  vessel  like  me  to  thrust 
himself  in  your  sight.  To  be  sure,  I  fear  that  I 
should  not  have  gone  to  see  you  even  if  you  had 
not  told  me  about  that  old  broken-ribbed  vessel 
at  Harpswell,  but  at  least  I  have  that  excuse." 

"No,  I  can't  accept  that  as  an  excuse.  I 
should  n't  have  known  that  you  were  in  such 
shape  unless  you  had  told  me,  —  which  you 
would  n't  have  done,  —  and  so  I  could  not  have 
been  pained." 

"  No  ;  but  I  must  have  limped  from  my  in- 
jury. I  might  counterfeit  any  kind  of  limp, 
'75 


perhaps,  well  enough  to  deceive  ordinary  peo- 
ple, but  you,  with  your  woman's  intuition,  and 
in  spite  of  an  obvious  non-sequitur,  would  at 
once  know  that  I  had  a  broken  rib  or  two." 

"  What  sublime  confidence  you  have  in  your 
own  theories  about  other  people !  Don't  you 
want  me  to  tell  your  fortune  ?  " 

"  I  almost  believe  that  you  could.  Do  you 
remember  your  prediction  about  your  little  tele- 
graph boy  ?  You  saw  a  future  in  him,  though 
no  one  else  did,  and  it  seems  to  be  beginning, 
already." 

"But  I  couldn't  tell  a  hero's  fortune,  —  a 
real  hero.  And  you  know  that  is  what  every 
one  calls  you,  now." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  If  they  only  knew  how 
cowardly  I  was  !  " 

"Ah,  but  you  did  it !  The  bravest  man  may 
have  most  fear ;  he  is  bravest  because  he  faces 
not  only  danger,  but  fear  beside." 

"  Unfortunately  I  did  not  face  the  fear.  I 
was  cowardly.  Let 's  not  talk  about  it.  Only 
don't  think  me  in  any  sense  a  hero.  I  was  really 
basely  cowardly." 

176 


"  I  can't  let  you  talk  so  about  yourself.  It 
was  a  grand  thing  to  do,  to  risk  your  life  for 
some  one  you  never  saw  before,  —  a  girl  that 
nobody  knew." 

She  took  my  hand,  thin  and  wrinkled  with 
age  and  with  sickness,  and  held  it  while  she 
looked  into  my  eyes  and  praised  me.  But  for 
me  there  was  only  distress  in  the  words,  the 
caress,  and  the  look  ;  and  yet  those  were  the  first 
words  of  praise  and  that  was  the  first  caress  I 
had  ever  had  from  a  woman  I  loved. 

"  Oh,  my  child,  how  little  you  know  of 
what  was  in  my  mind !  I  —  thought  —  the 
—  girl  —  was  —  you  !  " 

Once  more  the  look  of  fright  —  seeming  to 
ask  "  What  have  I  done?" — came  into  her 
face  as  on  that  Sunday  afternoon  in  Madawani- 
pee  when  I  begged  her  not  to  go  away.  But 
now  it  was  not  a  look  of  pity  that  followed  it. 
There  was  quiet  triumph  in  her  face.  Her 
heart  could  not  fail  to  quicken  when  she  knew 
that  a  man  had  risked  his  life  for  her,  —  and  for 
her  not  simply  as  a  woman,  but  because  she 
was  herself. 

177 


Yet,  as  always,  she  put  aside  all  selfishness, 
and  gave  her  thought  to  her  companion.  She 
turned  from  her  own  triumph  to  my  distress. 

"  It  was  a  heroic  thing  to  risk  your  life  for 
any  one,  friend  or  stranger.  And  you  would 
have  done  it  just  the  same  if  you  had  known 
that  it  was  not  I." 

"  No,  my  dear ;  I  cannot  flatter  myself  with 
any  such  thought.  I  believe  that  I  should  not ; 
I  am  too  cowardly.  The  fear  of  violence  grows 
with  the  years  of  immunity  from  it.  I  despise 
myself  as  fully  as  if  I  had  let  the  girl  die,  for  I 
did  not  risk  anything  to  save  her.  All  the  risk 
was  taken  for  you.  Nor  was  it  brave  to  try  to 
save  you.  I  could  not  help  it.  Is  it  heroic  to 
save  one's  head  at  the  expense  of  one's  arm? 
When  I  saw  you  fall,  as  I  thought,  I  felt  that 
it  was  I  who  fell,  —  that  the  train  was  about  to 
crush  out  my  life.  Of  course  I  tried  to  prevent 
that.  So  please  don't  talk  of  bravery  or  heroism 
anymore.  Let 's  forget  it." 

"I  fear  you're  not  likely  to  forget  the  acci- 
dent soon.  How  long  are  they  going  to  keep 
you  in  bed  ?  " 

178 


"Nobody  knows.  At  least,  so  they  say.  I 
may  be  out  in  a  month ;  I  may  end  my  days 
here.  But  tell  me  how  you  happened  to  know 
about  my  being  here  ?  " 

"  The  papers  have  been  giving  daily  bulle- 
tins about  you.  It  was  not  until  yesterday, 
however,  that  I  chanced  to  see  your  name. 
They  would  n't  let  me  in  here  yesterday  after- 
noon, because  I  came  so  late.  So  I  had  to  wait 
till  this  morning.  Tell  me  how  you  are  this 
morning." 

"  I  have  grown  rapidly  better  since  I  received 
my  first  morning  caller.  It  cheers  me  up." 

"I  am  glad  if  people  come  to  see  you.  It 
tends  to  make  life  here  much  more  endurable, 
I  suppose.  Do  you  have  many  callers  ?  " 

"I  have  had  but  one,  so  far." 

"  I  hope  that  one  comes  often,  then." 

"  I  hope  she  will,  for  she  does  me  a  great 
deal  of  good." 

She  looked  down  at  me  with  a  questioning 
smile. 

"  Yes,"  I  continued ;  "  you  are  my  first  visi- 
tor. But  I  know  that  you  have  many  demands 
179 


on  your  time,  and  so  I  'm  going  to  look  upon 
this  visit,  and  the  next,  if  I  get  another,  as  espe- 
cially great  favors,  to  be  grateful  for  always." 

"Will  you  be  grateful  for  more  than  one 
other  visit  ?  " 

"  Not  only  that,  but  the  gratitude  will  grow 
as  the  square  of  the  number  of  visits. " 

"  I  believe,  then,  that  I  never  had  so  good 
an  opportunity  to  win  gratitude.  I  have  half  a 
mind  to  try  to  see  how  much  I  can  win.  How 
fast  it  would  grow,  —  one,  four,  nine,  sixteen, 
twenty-five,  thirty-six,  forty-nine,  sixty-four! 
How  jolly !  Are  you  sure  your  gratitude  will 
holdout?" 

"  Sure." 

"I  think  I  'd  like  to  run  up  as  far  as  sixty- 
four,  any  way,  so  I  '11  try  it." 

And  she  has,  and  a  good  deal  farther.  I  am 
beginning  to  think  that  my  gratitude  is  increas- 
ing as  the  cube  of  the  number  of  visits.  It  seems 
to  be  approaching  infinity  very  rapidly. 


180 


XIV. 

I  DID  not  depend  on  Ruth  alone  for  youth- 
ful spirits.  Soon  after  I  came  to  Highbank, 
Harry  followed  me.  I  was  not  surprised  when 
he  appeared  at  the  hospital. 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  I  asked,  "  what  are  you 
doing  in  Highbank  ?  " 

"  I  'm  doing  several  things.  I  'm  looking 
after  you,  for  one  thing." 

"  Very  kind  ;  but  you  can't  deceive  me  by 
such  a  statement  as  that.  I  know  that  you  are 
a  stickler  for  proper  climaxes.  You  put  the 
least  important  thing  first.  Go  on  with  the  list 
of  purposes  in  Highbank." 

"  I  am  getting  a  change  of  air  and  scene,  for 
another  thing,  — and  that 's  anti-climax." 

"  To  be  sure.  For  that  very  reason  I  know 
that  you  mean  more  than  you  seem.  What 's 
the  particular  change  of  scene  that  you  need  ? 
181 


Is  it  necessary  that  Miss  Appleton's  face  shall 
be  in  your  scenery  ?  " 

"  I  rather  suspect  that  I  am  in  need  of  that 
particular  change  of  scene." 

"  If  she  is  the  object  lacking  in  your  scenes, 
you  have  come  to  the  right  place.  She  comes 
here  to  see  me  nearly  every  day.  She  will  be 
here  in  about  an  hour." 

"If  I  were  only  an  egotistic  fatalist,"  he 
laughed,  "  I  should  say  that  you  had  been  sub- 
jected to  this  accident  especially  for  my  benefit, 
so  that  I  should  have  plenty  of  chances  to  see 
her.  Has  she  been  good  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  at  your  asking.  To  have  her 
near,  to  hear  her  voice,  to  see  her  listening 
while  one  talks,  to  watch  her  smile,  is  enough 
to  make  one  call  her  good  to  one.  Though  she 
does  nothing,  she  is  somehow  an  inspiration." 

"  Yes ;  that 's  why  I  'm  here,  —  I  need  a 
little  inspiration." 

"  Do  you  expect  to  get  it  ?  " 

"  I  expect  to  get  a  certain  kind  of  inspiration 
every  time  I  look  at  her.  It  is  worth  while 
going  a  long  way  just  to  watch  a  beautiful 
182 


woman.  Yet  there  is  one  kind  of  inspiration 
which  I  fear  I  won't  get  from  her ;  yet  I  go  on 
hoping." 

"  I  supposed  you  found  out  long  ago  whether 
she  would  give  it  to  you." 

"  No ;  but  I  mean  to  find  out  pretty 
quick." 

"  If  you  wait  here  long  enough,  you  can  find 
out  to-day.  She  will  be  here  soon.  I  think 
she  would  n't  be  afraid  to  tell  you  in  my 
presence." 

He  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  mean  that  I  think  so.  She  has  given  me 
no  indication,  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  I  'm  going  to  look  her  up  to-day.  Where 
is  she  likely  to  be  ? " 

"  She  '11  be  here  in  an  hour ;  then  you  can 
meet  her  by  accident." 

"  Thank  you,  no.  I  would  rather  have  her 
know  that  I  met  her  by  intention." 

"Then  go  to  Mr.  Thomas's  house." 

He  spent  a  little  time  before  my  mirror,  and 
then  went  out. 

183 


The  day  was  extremely  hot.  The  wind  had 
blown  for  nearly  a  week  from  the  scorching 
plains  of  the  interior.  About  three  o'clock, 
almost  without  warning,  a  heavy  gale  reached 
the  town,  and  brought  with  it  torrents  of  rain. 
I  gave  up  the  expectation  of  seeing  Ruth.  I  was 
glad  that  she  was  too  sensible  to  venture  out. 
Then  I  began  to  wonder  whether  it  was  not 
Harry,  rather  than  the  storm,  who  kept  her 
away.  I  began  to  fear. 

The  wind  and  the  rain  were  over  by  six 
o'clock.  About  seven,  much  to  my  surprise, 
Ruth  appeared. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  did  n't  do  anything  so 
foolish  as  to  venture  out  this  afternoon,"  I  said, 
by  way  of  greeting. 

"  But  I  did ;  I  was  out  in  the  storm  an  hour, 
and  I  came  very  near  the  hospital  in  the  midst 
of  it.  I  have  a  new  patient." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"  A  girl  whom  I  came  across  yesterday.  She 
is  very  ill,  and  she  has  a  young  child  to  care 
for.  I  put  her  in  charge  of  a  dear  old  lady  near 
here." 

184 


"  Did  you  know  her  before  ?  " 

"  By  name  only.  She  is  the  granddaughter 
of  an  old  friend  of  my  father.  She  is  an  out- 
cast. The  man  she  loved  deserted  her  six 
months  ago.  She  was  never  married." 

"  How  did  you  happen  across  her  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  story  that  I  am  ashamed  of.  She 
came  to  me  last  evening,  and  told  me  who  she 
was  and  what  her  life  had  been.  She  expected 
me  to  help  her  find  some  work  and  put  her  on 
her  feet  again.  She  said  she  did  n't  care  so  much 
for  herself,  but  the  thought  of  her  child  drove 
her  to  appeal  even  to  a  stranger  like  me.  The 
notion  of  helping  such  a  girl  to  her  feet  rather 
took  my  breath  away.  I  knew  that  all  my 
friends  would  shun  her,  and  would  be  inclined 
to  shun  me  too  if  I  had  anything  to  do  with 
her.  I  tried  to  cheer  her,  but  could  n't 
bring  myself  to  make  any  personal  sacrifice  for 
her.  I  knew  of  an  institution,  or  '  home,'  for 
such  as  she,  and  gave  her  money  to  get  there. 
I  compromised  with  my  conscience  by  taking 
her  to  the  railroad  station  in  our  own  carriage. 
I  did  n't  feel  called  upon  to  do  anything  further. 
185 


Oh,  it  was  outrageous !  I  treated  her  like  an- 
other sort  of  being." 

She  paused.  Her  brow  clouded.  I  had 
never  seen  contempt  on  her  face  before. 

I  knew,  nevertheless,  that  I  had  heard  only 
a  part  of  the  story.  I  had  come  to  have  abso- 
lute confidence  in  her.  Probably  to  others  my 
faith  would  have  seemed  extravagant;  but  I 
might  almost  say  that  it  was  the  growth  of  forty 
years.  It  was  so  great  that  I  suspect  that  I 
should  have  trusted  her  even  though  I  had 
seen  her  doing  something  contrary  to  every 
letter  of  the  moral  law.  Her  intuition  was  so 
nearly  unerring,  her  love  of  all  that  is  best  was 
so  strong,  that  she  seemed  superior  to  those  laws 
and  restraints  that  we  weaker  mortals  need,  — 
like  fences  to  keep  us  out  of  our  neighbors' 
fields.  She  seemed  sufficiently  to  know  the 
boundaries ;  and  if  she  overstepped  them,  it  was 
only  to  carry  kindness. 

"  That 's  only  the  bad  part  of  the  story,"  I 
said ;  "  now  tell  me  the  good  part.  There  is 
always  a  good  part  to  your  stories." 

She  drove  away  the  cloud  at  once,  as  well 
she  might.  186 


"Well,  I  went  home  and  thought  it  over. 
I  tried  to  think  of  myself  in  her  position." 

"  Great  heaven  !  " 

"  I  admit  that  I  did  n't  have  much  success, 
but  the  trying  did  me  good.  I  saw  that  much 
of  my  feeling  was  due  to  mere  tradition,  to  out- 
rageous  prejudice.  I  tried  to  forget  that  I  had 
ever  heard  of  such  things  before,  and  then  asked 
myself  what  I  ought  to  think.  I  did  n't  ques- 
tion any  longer  what  I  ought  to  do. 

"  I  telegraphed  to  the  Home.  Though  it 
was  long  past  the  time  for  her  to  reach  there, 
they  had  not  heard  of  her.  I  took  the  carriage 
and  went  down  to  the  railroad  station.  No 
ticket  had  been  sold  to  any  one  answering  her 
description.  About  ten  o'clock,  I  found  her 
at  the  police  station,  —  I  had  needed  to  give 
her  only  fifty  cents  for  getting  to  the  Home. 
She  had  been  found  in  the  corner  of  a  ware- 
house porch,  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  trying 
to  snatch  a  little  sleep.  I  cannot  blame  her  for 
not  wanting  to  go  to  the  institution  ;  such  places 
are  so  machine-like.  I  took  her  to  my  uncle's, 
and  put  her  to  bed.  She  became  raving  in  her 
187 


sleep,  and  this  afternoon  I  carried  her  to  Mrs. 
Tamson's.  When  she  gets  well,  I  shall  provide 
for  her  somehow." 

"  And  what  will  the  world  say  ?  " 

"It  will  say  what  it  likes." 

"Doubtless." 

"  I  know  that  it 's  a  frightfully  risky  thing  to 
meddle  in  such  an  affair ;  but  I  can't  help  it. 
I  won't  be  bound  by  a  thing  so  utterly  sense- 
less as  the  attitude  people  take  in  such  matters. 
How  can  I  possibly  become  contaminated  by 
this  girl  ?  I  remember  my  wish  that  I  could 
strangle  Hilda,  in  Hawthorne's  '  Marble  Faun,' 
for  her  treatment  of  Miriam."  A  look  of  scorn 
came  into  her  face.  "  What  is  such  purity  good 
for?" 

She  stirred  a  little,  nervously,  in  her  chair. 

"  What  is  purity  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

"  It  is  a  thing  otherwise  known  by  the  name 
of  Ruth." 

She  smiled  gratefully. 

"If  that  doesn't  suit  you,"  I  added,  "I 
should  rather  trust  your  definition  than  my 
own. " 

188 


I  had  long  ago  got  beyond  the  stage  of  ab- 
stract definition  of  such  things ;  with  me  they 
had  become  concrete.  When  I  thought  of 
them,  I  saw  the  face  of  Agnes,  and  latterly  of 
Ruth ;  I  had  almost  ceased  to  distinguish  be- 
tween mother  and  daughter. 

After  several  moments  of  deep  thought,  she 
slowly  answered  her  own  question  :  — 

"  I  should  say  that  purity  consists  in  avoid- 
ing everything  that  impinges  on  spiritual  good. 
We  ought  to  regard  the  word  in  a  very  broad 
sense.  We  restrict  it  too  much  ;  we  attach  it 
too  much  to  accidents,  and  too  little  to  the 
essence  of  things.  There  is  hardly  an  action  of 
life  that  may  not  be  pure  or  impure.  The 
spiritual  must  be  pure ;  the  material  may  be 
impure.  Whatever  use  we  make  of  the  mate- 
rial side  of  us  at  the  expense  of  the  spiritual  in 
any  action  of  life  is  impure.  Whatever  use 
we  make  of  the  material  side  of  us  to  benefit 
the  spiritual  is  pure." 

"  I  like  that.  I  suspect  that  much  of  what 
the  world  calls  pure  would  come  under  your 
definition  as  impure,  and  vice  versa  ;  but  I  like 
it  so." 

189 


"  Under  my  definition  the  girl  across  the  way 
may  be  pure,  though  of  course  it  is  improbable. 
At  any  rate,  I  shall  assume  that  she  is,  and  I 
shall  treat  her  as  if  I  knew  her  to  be  so." 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  said,  "if  I  could  have 
foreseen  the  advent  of  this  girl  just  as  she  has 
come,  I  could  have  foretold  your  action  ?  It  is 
just  like  you,  and  every  bit  worthy  of  you,  and 
you  of  it." 

She  smiled  almost  joyously. 

A  little  later  Harry  came  in  with  the  morn- 
ing's city  papers.  We  fell  to  talking  of  the 
storm. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  he,  "  have  you  heard 
about  the  man  lost  on  Saddleback  Mountain,  — 
I  believe  they  call  it  ?  " 

Ruth  turned  to  him  breathlessly. 

"No  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  He  is  a  young  scientist,  Harris  by  name, 
who  was  trying  to  find  some  rare  specimens  of 
rock  on  the  mountain.  He  went  off  this  morn- 
ing with  his  dog.  At  six  o'clock  the  dog  came 
whining  home  with  blood  on  his  hair,  but  with- 
out any  visible  bruise." 
190 


Ruth's  face  was  white.  She  had  risen  while 
he  talked.  Her  hand  trembled  on  the  back  of 
her  chair. 

"  Has  anything  been  done  ?  "  she  asked. 

"There  is  talk  of  getting  up  a  searching 
party." 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  Her  hand  had  become 
firm  and  her  voice  was  clear,  but  she  was  still 
very  white. 

"I  don't  know;  possibly." 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  ? " 

"  With  you  ?     Do  you  mean  to  go?  " 

"  Yes ;  will  you  go  ?  " 

<<  Gladly." 

"  Do  they  know  where  he  went  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"Apparently  not." 

"  Then  I  shall  lead  the  way.  Please  go 
out  and  get  eight  or  ten  men  to  help  me.  I 
shall  be  ready  in  half  an  hour.  Come  to  my 
uncle's  house  at  that  time.  Can  I  count  on 
you  ? " 

"  Assuredly." 

Without  another  word  she  was  gone. 
191 


Harry  sank  back  in  his  chair  as  if  the  world 
had  suddenly  changed  and  he  dreaded  to  face 
the  new  one. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  think  it  pretty  evident  what  it  means. 
She  knows  this  man  Harris,  and  cares  very  much 
about  his  safety.  You  haven't  spoken  to  her 
yet,  I  take  it." 

He  shook  his  head  wearily. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do  now,"  he  said 
musingly. 

"  I  should  think  you  had  enough  to  do.  If 
you  don't  hurry,  you  '11  keep  her  waiting." 

An  hour  before,  he  would  have  given  any- 
thing for  the  privilege  of  rendering  her  such  a 
service.  Now  that  he  saw  why  the  service  was 
asked,  his  enthusiasm  was  gone.  He  went  about 
his  task  with  a  fallen  face.  I  was  left  alone  to 
ponder  and  to  wait  for  news. 

Soon  after  they  had  gone  the  storm  returned. 
The  rain  fell  steadily,  and  the  wind  howled  with 
hardly  an  intermission. 

About  midnight,  under  the  plea  of  urgency, 
Harry  was  admitted  to  my  room. 
192 


"  Well,  she  found  him,"  were  his  first  words. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it, — everything." 

"I  haven't  had  much  time  yet  to  think  it 
over." 

"  I  don't  care  to  know  what  you  think  of  it. 
I  want  facts." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Well,  I  went  out  and 
found  a  group  of  men  talking  of  getting  up  a 
searching  party.  I  told  them  what  Miss  Apple- 
ton  wanted  to  do,  and  said  that  she  seemed  to 
think  she  knew  where  to  look  for  him.  Most 
of  them  scouted  the  idea  of  a  woman's  leading 
such  a  party,  especially  at  night.  But  one  of 
them  spoke  up  and  said  that  he  knew  her,  and 
guessed  she  could  do  anything  she  undertook. 
Another  said  he  did  n't  know  her,  but  knew 
enough  about  her  to  be  willing  to  trust  her  com- 
mon-sense. None  of  them  had  any  notion  where 
to  look  for  the  lost  man,  he  said ;  and  as  Miss 
Appleton  did,  he  was  willing  to  try  her.  It  re- 
sulted that  they  all  agreed  to  follow  her.  There 
were  ten  of  us. 

"  By  this  time  it  had  begun  to  rain  again,  and 
the  wind  was  springing  up.  As  it  grew  worse, 
193 


a  few  were  inclined  to  back  out,  but  the  others 
hooted  them.  It  was  pitch  dark  when  we  gath- 
ered before  Mr.  Thomas's  house,  each  with  his 
lantern.  In  a  few  moments,  a  slight  young  man, 
with  a  big  slouch  hat  drawn  down  to  his  ears, 
came  out  and  asked  if  we  were  ready.  The 
voice  told  the  whole  story.  It  was  Miss  Apple- 
ton.  She  had  borrowed  her  uncle's  shooting-suit 
throughout,  even  to  the  big  corduroy  trousers  and 
top  boots. 

"In  a  very  few  words  she  told  us  what  she 
intended  to  do.  She  told  us  where  she  thought 
the  young  man  would  be  found,  and  asked  us  to 
correct  her  if  she  got  upon  the  wrong  track  in 
trying  to  find  the  place.  We  were  soon  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountain.  Then  she  took  a  com- 
pass in  her  hand,  got  her  bearings  carefully,  and 
started  into  the  woods  straight  away  from  the 
beaten  paths.  For  half  an  hour  we  plodded  on, 
—  up  over  fallen  tree-trunks,  wet  and  slippery, 
down  into  ravines,  under  overhanging  rocks, 
through  dense  bushes  whose  leaves  emptied  small 
showers  of  water  upon  us.  She  kept  close  watch 
of  the  compass,  and  would  not  swerve  from  the 
194 


straight  line.  She  apologized  for  taking  so  hard 
a  path  by  saying  that  in  the  pitch  darkness  it 
did  n't  pay  to  get  off  the  correct  line  at  all,  for, 
if  we  did,  it  would  be  too  hard  to  find  the  exact 
spot  at  the  end. 

"At  last  she  came  to  a  stop.  She  told  two 
men  to  go  to  the  right  about  five  rods,  and  look 
for  a  high  cliff.  She  told  another  two  to  go  to 
the  right  five  rods  beyond  the  first  two,  and  look 
out  for  the  cliff.  She  sent  four  more  to  the  left 
in  the  same  way.  All  were  to  walk  along  par- 
allel to  our  main  line  of  march,  measuring  the 
distance,  when  in  doubt,  by  calling  every  few 
minutes.  Pretty  soon  a  man  on  the  left  shouted 
that  he  saw  the  cliff.  We  all  joined  him.  Miss 
Appleton  then  told  us  that  we  were  near  the 
most  dangerous  spot  on  the  mountain.  Beyond 
that  cliff  was  a  ravine  with  loose  rock  overhang- 
ing it.  A  false  step,  or  a  heavy  jar,  or  a  fierce 
wind  and  rain  might  precipitate  tons  of  rock  upon 
our  heads.  The  lost  man  had  gone  into  that 
ravine  in  the  afternoon.  The  storm  had  prob- 
ably thrown  down  some  of  the  rock  upon  him. 
More  was  likely  to  fall  at  any  moment.  She 
"95 


said  she  was  going  in  there  after  him.  She  would 
not  ask  any  of  us  to  follow,  because  of  the  dan- 
ger; but  she  wished  those  who  did  not  go  to 
remain  just  where  they  were.  Without  another 
word  she  started. 

"  Five  of  us  followed.  Then  I  saw  why  she 
had  adopted  man's  dress.  A  woman's  clothes 
would  have  been  stripped  from  her  in  ten 
minutes.  The  ravine  was  full  of  huge  stones, 
ragged,  as  they  had  been  chipped  off  by  the 
frost,  and  yet  covered  with  water-soaked  moss. 
We  were  continually  slipping  and  falling  upon 
these  sharp  points,  so  that  our  trousers  were  torn 
and  our  legs  bruised.  To  make  it  worse,  many 
dead  pines  had  fallen  into  the  ravine,  across 
the  rocks.  The  sharp  stumps  of  their  broken- 
off  branches  caught  our  feet  and  clothing,  and 
tripped  us  unmercifully.  A  swift  stream  ran 
through  the  ravine.  This  was  high  and  foam- 
ing. We  often  fell  into  it.  On  both  sides  of 
us,  cliffs  rose  between  fifty  and  a  hundred  feet, 
black  and  dripping.  The  rain  fell  in  masses. 
The  wind  came  in  shrieking  gusts.  We  would 
get  well  braced  against  it,  and  then  it  would 
196 


suddenly  stop,  or  shift,  so  suddenly  sometimes 
that  we  lost  balance.  I  never  knew  before  what 
real  wildness  was  like. 

"  Miss  Appleton  fell  often,  but  was  always  up 
again  with  a  spring.  Her  corduroys  and  heavy 
long  boots  withstood  the  assaults  on  them.  She 
kept  the  lead.  She  peered  into  every  nook  and 
corner.  Twice  heavy  rocks  fell  from  a  hun- 
dred feet  above  our  heads  and  crashed  down  near 
us.  We  could  hear  the  tearing  of  limbs  above, 
the  falling  gravel,  and  then  the  crash  near  by. 
A  small  shower  of  dead  trees  followed.  The 
ravine  was  so  narrow  that  whatever  fell  was  sure 
to  fall  in  our  path,  —  if  not  before  or  behind  us, 
then  upon  us.  For  once  I  have  tasted  danger. 
Miss  Appleton's  face  was  always  white ;  but 
she  stopped  only  for  a  moment  even  when  those 
crashes  came. 

"  It  was  she  who  found  him  at  last.  He  was 
lying  unconscious  in  a  hollow  between  two  large 
rocks.  One  leg  was  sticking  up  along  one  of 
the  rocks,  and  a  small  pine,  evidently  fallen  from 
above,  was  lying  across  it.  His  head  was  bleed- 
ing. She  rushed  toward  him,  and  tried  alone 
197 


to  lift  the  tree.  We  finally  got  him  free,  and 
carried  him  out  to  where  we  had  left  the  other 
men.  While  we  made  a  litter,  she  held  his 
head  close  against  her  breast,  bandaging  the  bleed- 
ing wound  and  putting  brandy  between  his  lips. 
Before  we  were  ready  to  start,  he  was  conscious. 
I  never  saw  a  man  look  so  happy  as  he  did 
when  he  realized  where  he  was." 

For  several  moments  neither  of  us  spoke ;  but 
I  suspect  that  our  thoughts  were  running  along 
different  lines. 

"I  believe  I  learned  to-night  what  envy  is," 
was  Harry's  final  comment. 

I  must  confess  that  I  was  not  altogether  free 
from  it  myself. 

I  suspect  that  even  without  it  I  should  not 
have  slept  much  that  night. 


198 


XV. 

THE  doctors  have  at  last  told  me  what  I 
have  been  so  long  prepared  to  know.  It 
is  strange  that  though  a  dozen  years  ago  I  should 
have  been  hardly  moved  by  their  words,  now, 
at  over  seventy,  I  cannot  think  them  other  than 
cruel.  Then  I  had  nothing  special  to  live  for, 
and  it  would  have  been  easy  to  die.  Indeed, 
after  Agnes  had  been  lost  to  my  outer  life,  I 
used  to  think  that  Fate  had  decreed  the  loss  in 
order  that  I  might  be  free  from  earthly  ties,  — 
might  value  my  life  cheaply.  Of  late  I  seem 
to  have  lost  that  freedom,  —  though,  to  be  sure, 
it  is  but  a  trifling  fragment  of  a  life  that  I  have  to 
give  or  save.  Ruth  does  not  ask  me  to  save  it, 
—  doubtless  she  does  not  want  anything  of  it ; 
but  I  would  save  it  in  the  hope  that  it  may 
serve  her  sometime.  The  doctors  tell  me  that 
the  injuries  of  the  heart  have  proved  too  serious 
to  overcome.  Any  day  it  may  give  up  its  task. 
199 


How  can  I  wonder,  after  seventy  years  of  faith- 
ful beating  without  a  moment's  rest ! 

I  think  that  I  shall  tell  Ruth  and  Harry  to- 
day what  the  doctors  have  told  me.  It  is 
strange  that  they  happened  to  tell  me  so  soon 
—  only  the  second  day  —  after  the  exploit  on 
Saddleback.  So  much  is  crowded  into  these 
days !  I  wonder  how  much  Ruth  will  care. 
She  may  not  care  at  all  for  myself,  but  she  will 
care  because  of  my  love  for  her.  Her  heart  is 
so  tender  that  it  is  touched  by  every  other  heart 
that  it  knows. 

Harry  did  not  come  to  see  me  yesterday. 
This  morning  he  was  looking  disconsolate. 

"How  did  you  survive  your  adventure?"  I 
asked. 

"  One  part  of  it,  the  physical,  I  survived 
beautifully ;  the  other  part,  as  you  can  imagine, 
I  survived  not  so  well.  Her  treatment  of  the 
man  she  rescued  broke  me  all  up." 

"  Still,  I  suppose  you  realize  that  you  can't 
complain." 

"  Certainly.  She  never  encouraged  me  in 
the  slightest  degree.  I  fell  in  love  with  her 


almost  at  first  sight,  in  Madawanipee  ;  and  long 
before  you  knew  that  I  knew  her  she  had  put 
a  quietus  upon  me  several  times,  but  I  did  n't 
know  enough  to  know  when  I  was  beaten.  I 
wish  now  that  I  had  never  seen  the  girl." 

"I  don't  pity  you  a  bit." 

"  I  did  n't  suppose  you  did.  You  don't 
think  me  worthy  of  her." 

"  That  is  true  ;  but  I  might  pity  you,  never- 
theless. When  you  say  that  you  wish  that  you 
had  never  seen  her,  it  is  evident  that  you  have 
already  lost  your  love  for  her.  A  man  does  n't 
need  pity  for  having  lost  a  girl  whom  he  does  n't 
love." 

"  Don't,  for  Heaven's  sake,  talk  that  way  ! 
Can't  a  man  regret  his  love  for  a  girl  ?  " 

"  Not  unless  something  is  wrong  either  with 
him  or  with  her." 

"I  wish  something  would  go  wrong  with 
the  other  fellow,"  he  said,  with  forced  gayety. 
"I  'd  like  to  have  him  out  of  my  way." 

"  It 's  too  late.  What  happened  night  before 
last  showed  that." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  give  up.  I  'm  going  to 
201 


stay  here  and  see  her  this  morning.  I  see  her 
on  a  little  different  footing  here  than  elsewhere, 
and  I  'm  going  to  take  advantage  of  it." 

"Do  you  like  to  win  with  a  handicap  in 
your  favor  ?  I  should  think  that  you  would  be 
afraid  of  the  time  when  she  found  out  that  the 
race  was  not  fair  at  the  start.  But  it  makes  no 
difference ;  for  I  can't  let  you  stay  this  morn- 
ing. I  want  particularly  to  see  her  alone.  I 
wanted  to  talk  with  you  on  another  matter ; 
but  you  are  in  no  mood  for  it,  —  or  I  'm  not." 

It  was  with  rather  bad  grace  that  he  went 
away  a  few  minutes  later. 

When  Ruth  came  in,  at  eleven  o'clock,  she 
was  even  more  cheerful  than  usual.  It  seems 
as  if  no  shadow  ever  comes  into  her  life ;  she 
is  always  cheerfulness  itself.  Perhaps  it  is  be- 
cause she  lives  deeply,  and  so  knows  the  reality 
of  the  beauty  of  life. 

"  Your  nephew  thinks  you  very  cruel  this 
morning,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  met  him  half  an  hour  or  more  ago." 


"  Do  you  think  me  cruel  ?  I  will  make  you 
my  judge." 

"I  prefer  to  have  no  part  in  a  judgment 
between  you.  Still,"  she  added,  "  it  does 
seem  a  bit  hard  to  send  away  one  who  is  ready 
to  do  anything  that  he  can  for  you." 

"  Did  you  suppose  that  his  eagerness  to  stay 
was  due  to  eagerness  to  help  me? " 

"  Why,  of  course." 

This  answer  was  accompanied  by  a  smile 
which  I  confess  is  beyond  my  depth.  I  am  so 
unready  to  interpret  a  woman's  moods. 

"  Then  you  are  not  fit  to  judge  between  us," 
I  said.  "  You  would  not  see  half  the  case." 

"Justice  is  blind,  they  say." 

"  Blind  to  participants,  not  to  facts." 

"  I  must  confess  that  I  should  be  much  more 
likely  to  be  blind  to  facts.  I  should  give  judg- 
ment in  your  favor  off-hand." 

"  How  good  you  are  to  me  !  But  was  n't 
any  part  of  your  judgment  in  Harry's  favor  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  could  n't  stop.  He  wanted  me  to 
go  to  walk  with  him,  or  boating  or  riding  or 
anything,  he  said ;  but  I  told  him  I  was  in  a 
203 


hurry  to  see  you,  and  could  n't  think  of  staying 
away  so  long." 

She  walked  toward  the  window,  picking  up 
on  the  way  a  small  satchel  which  she  had  laid 
on  the  table.  She  sat  on  the  window-sill,  and 
looked  out  in  the  direction  of  her  uncle's  house. 
After  a  long  silence,  which  I  dreaded  to  break 
with  the  news  which  I  intended  to  tell  her,  she 
spoke  very  quietly  :  — 

"I  can  see  from  here  the  house  where  we 
first  met.  I  remember  that  night  very  well.  I 
was  reading  when  you  came  in.  You  spoke  to 
me  very  kindly ;  and  something  you  said,  or 
the  way  you  said  it,  impressed  me  deeply. 
Strangely,  I  don't  remember  what  it  was.  The 
story  seemed  very  real  to  me ;  but  what  you 
said  made  me  look  more  carefully,  young  though 
I  was,  for  the  truly  human  element  in  every- 
thing I  read.  Partly  through  your  suggestion,  I 
came  in  time  to  see  that  the  substance  of  human 
life  is  feeling,  —  that  what  we  may  not  feel 
through  our  own  experience  we  may  feel 
through  sympathy  in  the  experience  of  others. 
My  life  has  been  richer  since  I  appreciated  that 
fact."  zo4 


She  paused  a  moment. 

"  You  helped  me  again  in  Madawanipee. 
You  showed  your  confidence  in  me.  You  had 
faith  in  my  power  to  do  good  in  the  world, 
and  that  faith  carried  me  through  much  which 
otherwise  I  fear  that  I  should  not  have  done. 
It  helps  me  yet.  I  want  to  thank  you  for  it  all." 

She  was  looking  out  upon  the  street  again. 
It  was  several  moments  before  she  continued. 

"  To-day  I  have  made,  I  think,  a  new  dis- 
covery. You  have  told  me  something  about  my 
mother.  But  first,  tell  me,  was  there  in  High- 
bank  any  one  else  by  the  name  of  Alfred 
Robertson  ? " 

"No;  I  was  the  only  one." 

I  felt  that  she  had  discovered  my  secret.  I 
had  tried  to  avoid  disclosing  it,  for  it  might  seem 
to  make  a  kind  of  claim  upon  her  friendship. 
I  regretted  that  she  had  even  found  it  for  her- 
self. She  might  find  sadness  in  it. 

"  And  you  loved  my  mother  ?  "  she  asked 
slowly. 

"  Yes.  But  don't  say  loved,  as  if  it  were 
past  and  gone.  I  never  ceased  to  love  her." 
205 


She  turned  about  and  took  a  chair  by  my 
side.  I  put  out  a  faded,  wrinkled  hand,  and 
laid  it  open  in  her  lap.  She  took  it  in  both 
her  strong,  young  ones.  She  moved  as  if  to 
speak,  but  I  interrupted  her. 

"  You  are  your  mother  come  back  to  earth 
again.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  have  loved  you 
so  ? " 

She  looked  straight  into  my  eyes  without 
flushing  or  moving  a  muscle.  I  knew  then  that 
my  faith  in  her  had  been  justified.  She  had 
known  my  love,  had  taken  it  in  the  spirit  of 
the  offering,  and  had  felt  honored  by  it. 

"  I  wish  I  were  as  worthy  of  it  as  my 
mother,"  was  all  she  said. 

Presently  she  took  from  the  satchel  an  old, 
yellow  letter,  tender  with  age,  and  handed  it 
to  me. 

"  My  mother  usually  destroyed  her  letters," 
she  said. 


206 


>.  • 


CONCLUSION. 

HERE  the  manuscript  ended.  The  rest 
of  Mr.  Robertson's  story  I  must  tell  from 
what  I  myself  saw.  He  had  admitted  me  to  his 
adopted  family,  as  he  called  it,  on  almost  equal 
terms  with  Miss  Appleton  and  his  nephew. 

One  afternoon,  in  early  fall,  as  I  was  ap- 
proaching his  room  in  my  invalid's  chair,  Miss 
Appleton  came  out  with  frightened,  sorrow- 
burdened  face.  She  went  down  the  corridor 
in  the  opposite  direction  without  seeing  me. 
When  I  entered  the  room,  Mr.  Robertson  looked 
up  painfully. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said ;  "  she  will  be 
back  in  a  moment.  Won't  you  sit  down  and 
wait  ? " 

He  settled  back  into  an  easier  position  and 
closed  his  eyes,  as  if  no  further  care  was  upon 
him.  This  was  a  new  kind  of  reception.  He 
had  always  been  very  cordial,  heretofore.  I  sat 

down  to  await  developments.     In  a  few  mo- 
207 


ments  he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  about  as  if  just 
waking,  and  started  up  in  a  business-like  way. 

'* Strange  that  she  doesn't  come!  I  shall 
have  to  ring  for  her,  and  not  keep  you  waiting." 

"Whom  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Miss  Appleton." 

"I  didn't  come  to  see  Miss  Appleton.  I 
came  to  see  you." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly  !  "  he  answered 
wearily.  "  Pardon  me  !  What  can  I  do  for 
you  this  morning? " 

"  Nothing  in  particular,  thank  you.  I  thought 
perhaps  I  could  read  to  you,  —  or  do  anything 
that  you  would  like." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  my  secretary  does 
everything.  Good- morning  !  " 

His  mind  was  evidently  wandering.  He  did 
not  know  me.  It  would  be  hardly  safe  to 
leave  him  alone,  especially  if,  as  was  probable, 
there  had  been  a  change  for  the  worse  which 
the  nurse  had  not  seen.  He  tossed  about  ner- 
vously. At  last  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  and 
recognized  me.  He  held  out  his  hand  feebly, 
but  with  his  usual  cordiality  of  purpose. 
208 


After  a  few  moments  of  conversation  such 
as  was  usual  with  us,  he  took  a  fragment 
of  an  old  yellow  letter  which  lay  beside  him, 
and  asked  me  to  read  it  aloud.  It  read  as 
follows :  — 

"I  hope  I  am  the  first  one  to  send  you  the 
news  about  Alfred  Robertson.  It  ought  to  make 
you  very  glad.  The  mystery  of  the  forgery  has 
been  cleared.  You  were  justified  in  your  con- 
fidence in  his  integrity.  The  pity  is  that  you 
didn't  dare  to  show  it  to  him.  The  real  cul- 
prit has  confessed  at  last,  after  being  caught  in 
other  forgeries  in  the  West.  You  remember  the 
forgery  was  a  large  check  on  a  Western  bank. 
I  don't  quite  understand  the  process,  but  papa 
says  Mr.  Robertson,  being  a  bank  director,  did 
not  have  to  put  his  name  on  checks  which  he 
took  to  his  bank  to  have  cashed.  It  was  said 
in  the  trial  that  he  had  dared  to  forge  this  check 
because  he  did  n't  think  it  could  ever  be  traced 
back  to  him.  Now  it  turns  out  that  his  secre- 
tary forged  the  check,  and  gave  it  to  Mr.  Robert- 
son to  cash.  Then,  afterward,  the  secretary 
got  him  to  cash  the  genuine  check  also.  This 
209 


made  the  cash  drawer  'over,'  papa  says,  and 
the  fellow  put  the  amount  of  the  '  over '  into 
his  own  pocket.  I  don't  believe  I  quite  under- 
stand it,  but  I  hope  you  will.  You  remember 
the  sheet  of  practice  paper  that  was  brought  into 
court.  Every  one  said  it  was  Mr.  Robertson's 
practice  work  to  forge  the  other  name.  Now 
it  turns  out  that  that  rascally  clerk  had  learned 
to  copy  Mr.  Robertson's  name  exactly,  and  tried 
to  change  his  writing  gradually  from  one  to  the 
other.  The  signatures  were  a  good  deal  alike. 
That  was  the  evidence  that  counted  most  against 
Mr.  Robertson.  I  suppose  it  was  natural  in 
face  of  it  to  believe  the  secretary's  word  sooner 
than  his,  in  spite  of  his  declaring  his  innocence. 
The  rascal  seems  to  have  worked  out  his  scheme 
very  cleverly. 

"  And  now,  dear,  I  am  going  to  step  aside 
from  'minding  my  own  business.'  Will  you 
be  very  angry  if  I  mind  yours  a  bit  ?  Angie 
and  Carrie  and  I  were  very  sure  that  Mr. 
Robertson  was  in  love  with  you,  though  he  tried 
to  hide  it  from  everybody  except  you.  Please 
don't  be  angry;  but  we  thought  you  would 


some  day,  very  soon,  care  for  him.  Then  came 
that  awful  scandal  about  the  forgery,  and  his 
conviction.  You  believed  in  him  all  the  time, 
but  I  suppose  you  had  n't  come  to  love  him 
quite.  Then  after  his  pardon  he  was  afraid  to 
carry  the  name  of  jail-bird  to  you,  and  he  went 
away.  I  believe  that  even  now,  after  the  truth 
has  come  out,  he  would  hardly  like  to  make  the 
first  advance.  He  is  so  sensitive ;  and  not 
everybody  will  have  heard  the  truth.  Why 
don't  you  write  to  him,  and  congratulate  him 
on  the  triumph  of  the  truth  at  last,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing  ?  I  suggest  this  for  both  your 
sakes." 

Accompanying  the  letter  was  another,  dated 
three  days  later,  congratulating  Miss  Wentworth 
on  her  engagement.  In  it  was  this  sentence  : 
"  It  was  strange  that  I  happened  to  write  to  you 
about  Alfred  Robertson  while  the  letter  announc- 
ing your  engagement  to  Mr.  Appleton  was  on 
the  way  to  me." 

When  I  finished  reading,  Mr.  Robertson's 
eyes  were  apparently  fixed  on  the  steeple  of  the 
Highbank  First  Church. 


"I  am  glad  she  is  n't  going  to  marry  him," 
he  said,  after  a  long  silence. 

I  thought  his  mind  was  again  wandering. 
He  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  the  engagement 
noted  in  the  letter  of  thirty  years  ago. 

"  Who  ?  "  I  asked,  hoping  to  recall  him  to 
his  right  mind. 

"  Ruth.      Harry  does  n't  deserve  her." 

He  lay  silent,  as  if  in  revery.  Soon  he  began 
to  talk  again.  I  doubted,  however,  whether  he 
remembered  my  presence ;  he  appeared  to  be 
talking  to  himself. 

"He  does  n't  understand  her,"  he  said. 
"  He  lives  in  the  world  of  sense  ;  she  lives  in 
the  world  of  ideas.  He  must  not  have  her.  I 
hope  this  man  she  loves  is  worthy  of  her." 

Suddenly,  after  a  few  moments,  in  which  an 
anxious  look  had  played  on  his  face,  he  smiled 
brightly,  and  spoke  again.  I  moved  my  chair 
to  remind  him  of  my  presence,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  care. 

"  Strange  how  I  forget  myself!  Here  I  have 
been  worrying  over  Ruth's  future.  I  have 
feared  that  she  would  make  a  mistake  ;  but  that 


is  as  bad  as  Harry's  fear  the  other  night.  I 
scolded  him  for  not  having  confidence  in  her. 
How  much  more  should  I  scold  myself  now  ! 
She  knows  human  nature.  Other  women  may 
make  mistakes ;  she  will  not.  If  he  is  not 
worthy  of  her,  she  will  find  it  out ;  and  she 
will  find  it  out  in  time.  So  instead  of  worry- 
ing, I  rejoice.  What  do  you  think  ? "  he  asked, 
turning  to  me. 

"  I  should  say  that  you  have  every  reason  for 
rejoicing  in  her  rather  than  worrying  about  her." 

He  lay  still,  with  his  eyes  closed,  for  a  long 
time.  He  seemed  to  be  breathing  regularly ; 
and,  as  he  had  wandered  but  slightly,  I  saw  no 
necessity  for  summoning  the  nurses.  I  was  not 
familiar  with  sickness. 

While  glancing  over  a  book  which  Miss 
Appleton  had  left  behind,  I  heard  his  voice 
again.  His  eyes  were  open,  but  he  seemed  to 
be  looking  into  the  distance. 

"  Yes  ;  she  kissed  me,"  he  murmured. 

I  stirred,  and  he  looked  up. 

"  Do  you  understand  ?  "  he  asked,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  explain  something. 
213 


"  Yes,"  I  answered,  though  I  did  not  under- 
stand anything  but  the  words. 

"I  hope  you  quite  understand,"  he  con- 
tinued. "I  fear  you  don't.  She  kissed  me. 
Understand?" 

I  disliked  to  question,  but  I  feared  to  miss 
any  meaning  which  he  wished  me  to  get. 

"  Who  kissed  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Agnes,  my  Agnes,  just  now." 

He  turned  again,  and  then  suddenly  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  and  pushed  back  the  hair. 
The  natural  light  came  back  to  his  eyes. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  speak." 

"  Was  it  I  who  spoke  last  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  I  know  ;  I  said  that  Agnes  just  kissed 
me.  I  was  dreaming.  It  was  Ruth  who  kissed 
me,  just  before  she  went  out,  when  I  told  her 
that  the  doctor  said  that  my  time  was  short." 

When  he  fell  asleep  again,  I  went  to  call 
a  nurse.  Miss  Appleton  returned  with  me. 
He  was  breathing  heavily  when  we  reached 
him.  As  we  watched,  his  face  brightened,  and 


we  caught  a  few  words,  uttered  slowly,  but 
cheerfully  :  — 

"  Ah,  Life,  you  did  not  wholly  cheat  me  — 
after  all.  At  the  very  end  —  the  kiss  of  a 
woman  —  whom  I  loved." 

He  never  spoke  again. 


THE    END. 


PRINTED   BV   JOHN   WILSON   AND   SON   CAMBRIDGE 


A     000137801     7 


